The truth of me has passed you by
iconoclastic butterfly
condemned to flit on wounded wings
victimized by stoic things
yet ever knowing what is real
what others touch but seldom feel

A sense of justice seals my fate
and rhymes can never compensate
this anger dwelling deep inside
where dreams of soldier/poets hide
breeding demons of despair
that rush to kill what others share

With eyes confused by what they see
and ears that seek cacaphony
the nourishment my heart desires
kindles only desparate fires
sparks that leap from brain to brain
as pieces of a madmsn's pain

C. Lon R. Bruso