Sitting in the asylum
voices of the infirmed
call to each other.
A young man hums to himself,
keys jangling.
They carry their preferences under their arms,
judging each other by the objects in their hands.
And here I sit,
in the atrium
listening to the mad men heeding the sirens that call to them.
They obey
and beat their rhythms upon ivory tables
bone-wracked as wooden bridges slip out of their grooves
horses and trees united
in the Sistine Chapel ceilings of the lunatic's mind
epiphany and entropy painted on the skull canvases
of bridled souls.
The floor shudders as a hundred feet tap their heartbeats
in different moments.
Seizures of enlightenment
are what brought them here,
and similarly,
what will keep them.
A sired calls from a locked room
and the ivory tables shatter.