What does a man think of
in his prison of squalid madness,
in his inner fanatic gladness
of the ‘righteous’ suffering he has caused?
Does he relive his supposed glory,
avidly remember atrocities
that fed his grandiose illusions of
eternity’s nod of kind approval?

What did this man feel
within his souled prison walls
as he contemplated looping utopic fantasies
of empowering his ways over the human race?
Did he scratch absently at a flea,
hunkered in raptured gracility
of his shadowed-sun life
in murdering his bretherned kind?

What does a man see
in the convoluted prison inside
the gaping dark hole of his mind,
devoid of humanity’s reason and rhyme?
Does he exit reality’s binds,
consume his soul’s decadent wine
as he even now divines
he is one of a kind?

Where can we hide
from strictured minds?

Erin Moen
12/16/03
Copyright 2003 ©