Threes and Sevens

A schizophrenic man goes off the deep end but in passing, leaves us a bit of wisdom.

At home,

With the doors all locked.

Staring out his window,

With his gun cocked.

Out in the street the shadows roam,

Sifting through the quagmire.

He aims his rifle, ready to blow,

As he prepares to fire,

The leaves rustle just outside,

The wind howls his name,

And he answers back;

"I'll have nothing of your game!"

The wind whispers, "You cannot hide!"

"But they're coming for me!" he shouts

"They out there dressed in black,

You may have your doubts,

But I know why they're here."

As he raises his rifle once more,

The rain begins to fall.

A knock can be heard at the door,

He clamors toward it in fear.

Twisting the handle,

As he presses close to the wall,

Ready to rid the streets of the vandal.

 

As the door swings wide,

Nothing appears from the darkness.

Once more the wind hisses

"Now what do you make of this?

There's nothing on the other side!"

Looking out towards the shadows he fires,

But his target he misses,

As the bullets hit a car's tires,

He cries out in vain.

"Why won't you leave me be!"

The darkness does not answer.

Bending down one knee,

He immerses himself in the rain.

As the wind speaks to him,

"You are a cancer,

Outwardly an enigmatic cherubim,

But what lies within,

Is a paranoia so deep,

Your twisted desires,

Haunt you like demons in your sleep."

"One voice is clear above the din"

The shadow boys chant.

"It is the tides that quell the fires!"

So says a nearby Plant.

 

Thunder claps in the distance,

And the leaves are speaking in tongues.

The madman is on the loose,

The wind steals air from his lungs,

But his undying persistence,

Keeps him running fast.

But don't be so obtuse,

You can't think this will last,

Sirens echo as he falls.

They catch up in time,

So they can put him in a room,

When he has committed no crime.

Surrounded by padded walls,

He hears no speeches,

Far from the gloom,

For sanity he reaches.

It lies just out of his grasp,

Tears fill his eyes,

As he begins to laugh,

Having beaten the wind's lies.

With a noticeable rasp,

He shouts for the wind.

Lights out yells one of the staff,

Into the darkness he goes chagrinned.

 

In the dead of the night,

A song fills his head,

Number nine dream,

As he lays on his padded bed.

Words fill his sight,

Spelling out the lyrics,

In the light from a moonbeam,

As it cascades across the pads and bricks.

Before speaking he laughs aloud,

"You cannot defy defiance!

You cannot satiate desire!

The sounds of silence,

Drown the voices of the proud!

The glory is held in my right hand!

And though I wander through the mire,

I do not dwell in the quicksand.

I shall hold my head up high,

And in my final hour

I shall shout to the heavens!

For I answer to a high power!

As I lay here to die,

I must leave this blowing in the breeze;

Good things come in sevens,

Bad things come in threes."

Author's Note

This poem shares a title with a (great) song by Queens of the Stone Age, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the song and any similarities are purely coincidental.

Reviews

[Saturn's Lover]

I enjoyed reading this. I loved your use of imagery.