Their feet are like drums
Shaking the walls I’m carving
It’s a faint dove, but I’m not good
The Asylum; it is not mine until I’m alone
I’m an escapee, hiding amongst all that is raw and swallowing gore
I often dream of a pale beach of vibrant blue waves as the place I am myself
I am the salt of an open wound,
and I wonder if I am me, even when I’m finally free
If I’m finally free.
The Asylum; is a skeleton of black lead pipes
Like the lungs of our mothers, and the hands of our fathers
I hear them at night, cascading ever corrosive erosion, to which it gets really
quiet..and my copper mind turns green
The walls shake, again, from the drumming of their feet
I’m clattering bullets, though I want to be a dove on a pretty view
The Asylum; and the fear that you’re feet will begin drumming