There is going gradually insane, there is even shelter from time to time, maybe a canopy for the truth, plagued by frauds, which is no one’s fault, they've only themselves to blame. Then there’s underneath the bridge which can be made to stay longer on the way. This particular variety’s imaginary, the idea is (was) to get homeless and insanity to sound like the other, the words themselves to feel like the other, roll off the tongue unnoticed, that way, it’s easier to press closer and everyone sounds mad, then it's possible to create a subjective world, where insanity is like apple pie and only stares upon the grunt. The powers that be manipulating the machinations shall inevitably end up completely insane themselves, but, with such influences upon language, they’ll continue to mock the destitute Then, when all are reasonably and completely insane, we’ll not be able to tell the damn difference, this madness will be the only kind we know. © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman Hom
(The Weaver's Song)