BALLAD OF THE DEAF
Married to the pen,
bleeding on sacred scrolls,
as priceless ink flow.
On the boulevard of confusion i stroll,
watching heads roll,
welcome to the lions' den.
The world is an asylum,
clerics and evangelists
robed up as therapists,
we run to our chemists
as they refill eardrums
with same old fallacies.
What is the weather
in hell at winter?
no one questions the maker,
only but a fool's fantasy.
Yet, curiosity chewing me up
we all need something to believe in
no theory is relieving
as it all seems deceiving.
My skeptic cloak I drop,
and make this realm my solemn haven.
Certified out cast of heaven,
expecting no raven
from the sky hurled
to quell this hunger
for undiluted wisdom.
Unlike the prophet Elijah
when my time is done,
in headed for oblivion
the state of perfection,
with the fairies and elf,
the winds holding sway,
dark nights all day,
listening to the bagpipes play
the ballad of the deaf.
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