He sits in his stupor.
Pooled upon the floor.
Normally, that's how he prays.

He writes his best.
In his centre handed spirograph.
To tell the world how he hurts.

Like the shrinkless rest of us he writes.
The best he knows, the only way he knows.
Honesty and suffering. A man, convicted to the pit.

A paradise for staring eyes
Spectacular show.

But he has no interest.
His talent is his silence.
Spoken through his words.
Wound in his insanity.

Honesty is a bike.
Ridden by everyone, but mastered by very few.

And so he waffles on. Because he loves bikes.