Is that here the lunatics are in charge.
My voice just increases the inconsolable screaming,
Dismal whistling, petitions for happiness withheld.
I'd escape, if I could, to this quiet alcove,
Reflecting on definitions of love:
How it is always kind, and never remembers,
And perseveres through faith alone.
But the daisies so white placed here in the glass
Make all of that seem so shallow.
