You wouldn’t listen to a madman
With a shrill outburst, powerful
And sudden, like a flurry of crow wings
And voice just as loud, burying
The silence of rummage, escaping
The grime of earth, and seized
In a solitary moment.
What do you know about truth?
Nay, let us speak of friendship
And the portly mother hen,
Poking mother earth, finding truth,
And lie, truth, and lie. How, my friend,
Would you know, when we sit
And laugh and cheer without end?
What if, in mindless merry’s midst, I say
You will ignore a call, forget a text,
And look away from me, one day?
Look at the madman’s finger, jabbing
At a shattered promise, like a mournful
Crow’s beak, splitting the pretentious air;
Listen, for something troubles him.
Picture credit: wbur.org