They never felt the vibrations
Of the voices out of the walls
Like you did, never heard their
Ghosts call from the mouths of
Birds from the fields below
The asylum window, or felt
The cold embrace of depression’s
Touch, at least not over much.

They never counted the distance
From bed to wall from wall to door
And back again, never felt the pinch
Or punch of each new day, each new
Hour, never thirst for the next drink
That never came, that teased
And tormented like good old demented
You, you with the Marylyn Monroe
Walk, the Greta Garbo talk.

From the asylum window you
Would stand and stare and watch
The seagulls in the air, see the seasons
Change from hot to cold, from light
To dark and never forget your demon’s
Hold, your lover’s eyes, his voice,
His sickly smile, the way he touched
You that final time, and all you could do
After you stabbed him through, as an
Exciting encore, was to kiss his dying
Lips as you’d never kissed before.