House of Detention

Good afternoon!

There are no true tones left in your bones.

Fake plastic trees everywhere-

-Infest my forest-

 -My Forest of Azure.

After three centuries in Limbo,

Time has come for the awakening of the subconscious from the damp cellars of cognac.

A Divine Comedy is about to being.

I would have gone Unicorn-hunting today,

But for the rain, heaven’s Cardinal Sin.

 

I’m in search of my Maid of Orleans.

Have you seen her?

Has anyone seen this girl?

I’ll tell you how elegant she is, deep down in the black abyss.

She washes her ornate hair every winter morning.

She often takes a walk through the Palace of Mordor.

She sunbathes on the epitome rocks of Lost City Atlantis.

I call her my Maid of Orleans.

 

It’s wonderful to know that I can’t sell Idealism to buy bread.

Everytime I hear them sirens on a winter night.

  I live some more. I die some more.

And there’s no one home, in my House of Pain.

But if you promise to break this promise,

I shall make you my confidante again.

There is never anyone home, in my House of Detention.

 

Repetition is Intelligence.

-That is what they told me at Hills Sanatorium.

Heretics die every afternoon, in areas Urban & Rural.

What good is someone singular, in a sea of plural?