A Visit to the Asylum

I came upon a house of dreams
where silence shined bright in broken beams,
where shadows spilled on checker tiles,
and clocks forgot the weight of miles.

Afternoon on a Hill stood bright,
but here, no sun could find its light.
A whispered Alms for those who weep—
soft echoes lost in corridors deep.

An Ancient Gesture bends the spine,
fingers curling over time.
Do you believe that love remains?
Or must it die in dusty names?

Beloved Dust, still warm with breath,
waits beside a gate of death.
Apostrophe to Man, beware—
your hands have built this hollow air.

And still, as men have loved before,
they press their lips to war and lore,
to temples cold, to vacant pews,
to prayers unsaid, to trust abused.

The Ashes of Life lay thick and gray,
as sunrise mourned the end of day.
A specter cried at dawn’s first sight—
an Assault against the coming light.

The young are green; their roots still grow,
but blight will take what youth won’t know.
The tale of a bluebird sings from afar—
a key, a door, a blood-red scar.

A Burial beneath the trees,
the wind unfolds in elegies.
But do not grieve, and do not trust
the fragile hope of love or dust.

And so I left that house of woe,
where ghosts of longing come and go.
I dreamt I moved through fields of peace,
where sorrow slept, and love was freed.

But even in that golden moon light,
I knew—I knew—it was not right.