Poem — Houses of the Mad

Living in the houses of the mad
One would ask: when the bells strike three
Would the roof of this circus kindly,
in the loyal spirit of sir Galahad
Burn quietly from the hands of bourgeoisie;
Those that we no longer follow blindly?

Comforts lie in ruins at our feet
The horrors of capital gain linger
Yet Marx and Luxemburg could not attain;
For the sins of the Mass’s heat
Would lead to humanity’s whimper
So soon, and bleeding from its jugular vein.

Many were warned, perhaps too early
Of the acidity of the situation
There is no lie greater than the personal
Dwindling thoughts that act upon controversy
That led to a thoughts stagnation
That found Democracy more purposeful

In great truths lie the political
Even when humanity may ramble
Too lost in its burnable places
It will be impossible to remain uncritical
When even a roman candle
Can cover humanity’s traces.

Society started with patients
Not with doctors of learning
Or with a dogs whimper
It was general hallucinations
That kept human fear performing
Never the warmth of the freethinker

The death of Socrates led us to believe
That it mattered what one could never see
And that the afterlife was worth the trouble
Belief, they would say, was to preconceive
Belief, they said, was key
And since then , wisdom has always had to stumble

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