Crawling Through Dementia
Once I told a friend who carried such sorrow in his soul that we are like poets speaking a dead language; trying in vain to sound coherent to people who could never understand.
Once I heard a friend speak of 5 roses; one of each of his loved ones gone from his life; and I thought I heard him call them "Prophets of the Rose" in a language that was not my own but that was in my mind; he never called them that; I heard it in my head.
Once I saw cruelty hidden in a smile; one of those lessons that echo forever in the soul; how beauty and ugliness are two faces to the same coin anyway its turned; but beauty is what I chose to see and I turned blind to ugliness.
Then one night she came to me, Justice.... The first of the Prophets to arrive at my banquet meant for the demented. It takes a bit of insanity to open up the flood-gates to our inner hell; and in another place wearing some other skin it's quite alright to let the beast run free.
I shall give ugliness a face and I shall clothe it in beauty, so that you will see what you want to see and turn blind to the ugliness I wish to show. The Prophets are coming... In my head, I can hear them whispering poetry in a language that makes no sense to the lucid mind