Quick thoughts of primordial insight.
Unlawful, wrong and not right.
Tearing at them like a gardener at a weed,
but they continue to grow in the mind and feed.
Traveling through dark tunnels like train.
Through the eyes of the freshly insane.
Laughing quietly in never-ending corners.
Hiding from a procession of black mourners.
Too Late! The dead are whispering in my ears
Of the song of life and tears.