The Lunatic Asylum

There is a light / Burning all through the night / At the lunatic asylum, / An unshaded / Bulb, shaped like a teardrop, / Hanging from the dead white ceiling / Of the hall, to / Chase the moody shadows / From the inmates’ beds so that they / Lie with open / Eyes, and yet without / Fear; it burns harshly, a sun that / Does not ever / Set but harsher still burn / The lamps in their skulls, those lights that / The bromides or the electric whiplash / Of every week cannot put out. / Those large and hot / Insomniac lanterns / Under which grey spectres dance in / The sepulchral / Ballrooms of their minds. No, / Do not pity them, they / Were brave enough to escape, to / Step out of the / Brute regimentals of / Sane routine, ignoring the bugles, the wail / Of sirens and / The robots’ stern bark / Hup, two, three, hup two three, hup two...