The sun rolls up its sleeves
As the day moves forward.
Faces, like abstracts
shift in and out of the hemisphere.
You've been livin' the mad life
corrupted and unsound.
No generic prescription can mask
it's inner workings.
The escape is a wicked
mission of madness and
self destruction
Your memories are distorted.
One day, upon your return,
the familiar place has a memory
but the parallel shows it's face
of control.
Cursed by day and the
light of it's discovery;
By the voice of the image
profoundly alive and watching.
A calculated, compartmentalized elimination
eats though and the game's in play.
The battle voices it's falsity.
It's a charming idea on a mission.
Standing, half erased in the crowd.
-Sonja J. Johnston © 27-Oct-2015 (for a project on schizophrenia.)
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