Sane

[incantation]

The sound of 
Spider finishing web is amplified.
Voices In panopticon in dream ebb.
I find myself in a room blowing
On wind chimes above flames,
Names echo from rooms, "he's a
Psycho, he's nuts", their are cuts
Above the tattoo of 
William Blake on my arm, 
His eyes were lit by the 
Moon after I was sectioned,
People in there caressed 
The geography of mental distress.
In prison my cellmate stole
My tears of silver and gold, 
He then sold me his tears  that

Reflected the abyss. 

Do
Tattooed eyes close when 
I dream, Blake mined a seam,
Created beauty out of madness,
Beyond the call of 
Psychiatry his panopticon of selves
Made a whole. Imprisoned perceptions.

 

[Terry A]

This poem- a profound metaphor of what rests in the deepest parts of an individual's consciousness and how almost unsharable much is. Away from current events and mass media, popular culture, we are different beings. Far more sensitive, far more aware, far more apt to the metaphors that capture as well as possible states of consciousness. Imprisoned in our times, and as the poem depicts, ever wary to be further imprisoned. How do we ever know, past superficialities, that we share the same consciousness of time and space with another?

The poem, like all of your poems is powerful by your sheer gift with imagery.