Tripping through the page
Leaves any kind of mad man
To do his or her "thing"
Tis' a funny feat when one meets
Their madness
Their mayhems
Their happiness
Their lies
All on a page
That is not quite anything
But something that wills
Another spring
That speaks jealously of
Foreign sand picture frames
Cat nip party grass naps
And memories of images
Torn
Burn
Scattered
Covered
In the insane rain
As if one were looking in the mirror
And reflecting
A face which they had never met
Yet had seen
Perhaps passing
On a near by L train
Or a buss filled with heads
Like a hole of mice
Instead
These things to believe manuever through minds
Much like these rats
In those darkened crippled peeling rooms
Burrowing deeper deeper deeper
Until the thoughts are not thought
And wait to die
As another
Truth filled
Lie