“Sanity is not statistical.”- George Orwell
The tour guide elucidates black and white scenery.
Unamused clients grow weary of following blindly…
Beyond the barren trees lies a horizon of dirt.
The patrons’ eyes assume a bedraggled trail
Ostentatiously drawing them into its depths.
Unable to sense the malignity; compliance is inevitable.
The seemingly infinite nave reveals a peculiar door,
Hexagonal in shape, displaying no visible ****
“This heavily armored door hath been open since
the dawn of pandemonium. Enter if you dare,
my humble insanitorium.”
Their dreams have intruders,
Infiltrated by an obscure entrance
Remote in the fact that even they
Are ignorant to its location.
The intruder takes hold of,
their brains, hearts and blood.
Drives them to brink of insanity
Then leads them back home.
Metamorphosis: their messiahs
Were once smiles and gold
Now they are maggots, cole
And decayed linen for skin.
They are the peaceful violence
That occurs among the leaves
Existing for a short time in beauty.
Than drying up and withering away.
Obscurity is a terrifyingly beautiful renaissance
A peculiarity that rock them to the core.
The ghosts that occupy their souls,
And the cavern that’s missing from them
Experience is theirs to have or to lack. For they
haven’t much time before the dirt takes them back.
An elegant yet dismantled courtyard comes into view.
They.
Know not of the geometrics that seem
To have replaced the techni-colour trees.
Once overgrown in the tainted court-yard
Roots overharvested and interconnected,
A corn stock maze burnt to the ground.
She.
Used the finest twine, sharp and strong.
To tie her soul to the cage that houses her heart.
“Two mad rabbits were dancing by a tree.
Before one vanished down the hole,
I swear he looked right into me.”
They.
Watch in dismay as her chest is scalped.
The unsound artist tugs (she does not protest)
Bones shatter and he eats the remains.
Soft fingers caress the pulsating red ball.
All the women cry as he claws at her soul.
An aghast audience enters the house in
Hopes of a less unsettling spectacle.
A tiny jar sits on a wooden table, curiosity
Causes a member to remove the lid.
“To exist in the subconscious is more terrifying.
The flame’s lick the nimbus and I am calm.
An angry cockroach lodged in my trachea.
The soil is more sinister than it was yesterday.
An abstract design, the lines infinitely overlap.
The drawing continues and I try to unravel,
the circles and squares but I simply cannot.
They are now in my blood, a pentagonal paradise.
It would be lovely to hold my heart in my fist.
Squeeze it until the blood becomes a fourth
Of July spectacular. The circles and squares would
Be emancipated from the charred remains of the jar.”
Prying is never rewarded. The jar goes up in flames.
The great herd is lead to a theatre-like abode.
The tourists snap pictures as they assume their seats,
The Insanitorium’s owner makes a gut-wrenching speech.
“I’m wandering aimlessly through the in-between.
The face-painted crowd watches with open mouths.
As I search for and seek out self-fulfillment.
On the edge of their seats, waiting impatiently,
For my humble home to self destruct.
They gnaw on my self-worth, ripping and tearing
My well-though out decisions into tiny,
Unmanageable quadrants that I cannot repair.
The herd is well aware of what lies along the line.
But I strayed long ago and am of a different time.”
The applause drowns out the sound of the speaker’s screams.
The patrons are lead through a dimly lit hallway,
Another peculiar door materializes, triangular in shape.
The room is a vessel for conscious and unconscious ramblings
Of minds left to rot and decay like rabid corpses.
“Enter respected patrons and feast your eyes upon the truth.”
The first trembling hand finds its way to the door.
A striking man is seated, muttering cloud-cuckoos.
His hands and feet bound to the ancient wooden chair.
The blade hovers above his hard skull threatening to fall.
His brain is dissected; life-long deception is evident
The black cats in his mind are visible to probing eyes.
Sinister felines stretch their brittle bones; it is not
Long before they’re biting and scratching his insides.
Like all apparitions, the vision returns to the dust from which
It was created. It’s true home among the asteroids and
The planets that contain the same star dust that once
Composed flesh and bone. Not Reduced, but reused and recycled.
Before the disappearance is final, he chokes on his last words…
“A pearl that is flung,
From the stars overhung
Will dislocate like a plastic doll.
Alas…
One pearl turns to millions
And a million turns to dust.
The doll’s expression ,
remains stagnant.”
The tourists are angry and appalled at what they have witnessed.
They have not come to the harsh realization,
That in order for a man to see, his eyes
Must be pried open. Stunned into epiphany.
Become aware of the demon residing behind them.
“You are not sane devil woman,
For your tour reveals horrors of many kinds.”
The woman’s mouth contorts and her eyes darken.
“All entities, dear guests, hath been drawn
from your own mad minds.”