before i was brought in

the tears built up behind the dam, remnants of the tyrannic days of the egos power. Up above, a dove surveys the scene, from out of natural eyes, flies above the damaged land, witnessing new life. Down below a once proud man lies on the ground, head open like an oil can, he leaks strange thoughts, corrosive dreams into the land. Hoping that the inner sun, beneath the earth can cope with these new germs, holding on while he still can, and holding shakily in his mind, visions of mary and mother earth, visions of millenia, purity, an ancient birth. Yielding to the yonder blue, he turns around now he is drained, he sees the clouds up in the sky, and feels to be like them. now that he's become a song, to be played on a distant pipe, he sees the dove , together they fly, given up his guns, lay down his knife. If his life is just beginning, then what was it before, an eternity in a prison cell, trapped within cerebral walls, locked and stifled, poisoned and mad, he paced around crazy walls, only glad, that he had, tatooed locks and mechanisms, upon his skin, and only glad he'd learned to paint from memory, before he was brought in, galleries of suns, galleries of moons, galleries of fools, galleries of him.