• Walking over, the minefields of the mind, wondering which footing is real,
    what you see, and always what you feel, is something true, or just a dream?
    Dangerous territory, floating through space and life,

    Scrambling to reach each new checkpoint, dashing along the corridors of your own eternal set of hells, broken lens, to kill the view, of he few, looking away from horrors, and what you perceive is a fractured story,

    Calm comes from a bottle of wine, or that friends you saw some years ago, today. Remembering, what lives you helped bring, the tales you tell so well, are flooding back, bricks of hopes and souls,

    Build that wall, crawl in that hole, terrorize your own love, kill the faith, dine in the waste, bask in the past, all the warm images in your head, takes you away to a landscape made of both what you want, what you think, and everything you hope to be.

    Ride on the back of an eagle you helped create, and whether that bird will fly or crash into the wall by your hands, isn't the only thing at stake, its your mind, what you will find, when you search the cellar sure, open the door..

    The passage back to the wall, so high, climbing slowly, bleeding fingers to run down the hands and stain the cold gray bricks, snapped arms, and a broken hand, once you get out to the remains of your mind, see what is left, it is a despairing wasteland.