Things That Can’t Be

Have you felt the sensation
of a mind like a merry-go-round?
Like two tumbling toms
having a spat,
or the spinning clothes in a laundromat?
Not a hand on the back,
but a hand on the head,
whirling and twirling till you wish you were dead?

I have,
each night,
like another is dreaming my dreams,
hounding my hurts,
poisoning my streams,
bringing worries like whirlpools,
sucking me down,
guilt like a gravestone,
filth like a gown.

Do you wonder,
and whisper,
of things that can’t be?
Of masters,
and slaves,
and the fears that kids see?
Of the lurkers in closets,
and of eyes in the walls,
of shadows in corners,
and of touches that crawl
up your spine
on your eyes
down your face and your neck,
and of voices
that tell you
of fear and of death?

Ignore me.
I’m mad.
And these things don’t exist.
This is nothing
that science
can’t explain as a trick.

And the sword that the knights
in those storybooks held,
the one that burned bright,
and that slew death and hell,
that dropped all the dragons,
and stilled every ghost,
that turned back the shadows
and evil’s vast host…

It’s nothing,
don’t bother,
you don’t need it,
go home,
that thing is for children
who believe tales and poems,
and for madmen and crazies
in white padded rooms…
and for slaves who it’s set free,
and who’ve held it
and won.


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