the road to Hell
is paved with good intentions.
I have wondered
about the path to madness.
Do they converge?
I sense, before sleep, in moments extended,
and just after waking, as well,
discreet conversations, both daft and demented,
disturbingly clear as a bell.
Inside the pink eyelids, the movies are playing,
just after the chatting is done.
The cunning creations are sometimes dismaying.
These slideshow dissolves, one by one.
Perhaps the withdrawal from drugs of my shame,
or the onset of early senility,
or a devious malady could be to blame
for the loss of a keen sensibility.
So I pray, as I battle, and inside I hide,
as I make a deep tunnel through snow,
digging for daylight and dearness denied.
(May I see, once again, ‘fore I go)