Existing in a stratosphere full of a familiar twilit breeze,
I reign down on my enemies.
I'll plant them in my sanatorium
and tuck them nicely into bed,
leaving them to gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling.

Because they all say I'm crazy--
but they don't know of all the things
that have died from my hospice embrace.

So they'll gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling
missing everybody they know,
and seeing beauty in the
placid birds floating past their mental window.

I'll still give them the birds.