"Sycamore Street"

In this corrupt mind,
Where is my sanity?
In this insane state,
Where is my mind?
I must have left it
On Sycamore street
Where the wind blows all around
But never budges the folk
And where the pigeons feed
On what the passers-by have yet to drop
And where the night symbolizes new life
And the sun means death,
Where the trees grow upside-down
And the grass sprouts from clouds,
Where the brain is a useless tool
For building me up but is
Known for drowning me in its ocean of paranoia,
Where my skin crawls with anticipation
Of when I might die,
Not for religious purposes but
For the gaining of sempiternal self-knowledge,
Where I was born into as much poverty
As I see in my father's eyes,
Where the fulfillment of Earth's sweetest fruits
Tempts my every taste bud,
Where time has no birthplace,
And where the birthplace of my sanity has
Been buried among other ruins of a city
That was once governed by esteem.

Adrienne E. Helms (nothingfancy@juno.com)