and there, carved into the oaken doors
of the Madhouse, in stark, lifelike detail,
three massive cyclones. side by side. 
They seemed to sway and beckon
as the door began to creak open.
"We'll be there soon," the Cyclones harshly whispered to me.
"We'll be along shortly, and then we'll rip apart and send you whirling along with 
everything you love. Send you whirling to the void, where everything wails and moans,
and nothing will ever rest in peace again"*

 Madhouse

Time for the rain to shine,
ways for the moon to rhyme,
space for the gods to pine,
running through a madhouse with no way to stop.
 
Cane for the *** to chew,
slow when his eyes hit you,
rope when the hands push through,
skidding on wet floors on the way to the drop.

Slip to a diiff'rent side,
high on the wind to ride,
hope that the tree will hide,
stumbling up stairwells to get to the top.

Run as the jaws will snap,
swing when the wings won't flap,
streak when the soles do slap
Twilight is closing on the whirlwind's last crop.

I feel like a mildly hopped up snake oil salesman,
a roadside vaudevillian whose vim and vigor stems from 
the knowledge that you can't stop the flow of words, 
the spell has to be smooth and unbroken,
otherwise the cracks in the truth start to snap for attention,
and when you start writing things like that down, 
it's clear that not everything is the way it is supposed to be.