The grand madness feeds
gnawing at aspiration, chewing and biting bits
and wasting the rest, greasy pieces of fat
flicked away. So his head bangs a thunderous boom
shaking his mind like a bag of old nickels.
Maybe he's lost, looking for sanctuary in limbo
and there's no grace in hell.
He's colliding with variables of vintage wisdom,
finding hope in a cage, hints of honest care
that points toward The Way.
People calling out, shouting their hardened phrases
of semi-intellectual directives.
Misshapen glory-crushed impressions that curve
and crease and bend around the truth.
He's the Never-Man that never knew,
never understood the plan, cheapened religion
bought through a phony shake of hands
Walking a path without a clue, a hold
precarious at best, a brittle, mildewed rope
that will give way before long, forcing a long
Paths still sit at their zenith, waiting for walks
from mindless men that want to fill their heads with
need and truth, paths born for youth and their search
for never and nothing and forever and something
for wounds that cripple
or the itch of love, all, none
a grand madness that feeds
into a spiraling pinch, them, never full