the sky grows dark
the day grows bright
it’s all the same to him –

disaster and
good-fortune are
a sort of synonym

the gift of friends
the bane of foes
the downswing or the climb –

for he hears voices,
voices,
all the time.

so whether
symptomatic, or
syndromic, or whate’er

it’s just reality
to him, he
really doesn’t care

you set your stalls,
or set your watch,
or set your hair on fire

but he hears voices,
voices,
in a choir.

and what is madness
but a form
in all of us
and every day

and what is this
‘insanity’
we think we know
but cannot say

i know him well
i’ve known him long
i know his aching mind

for we, we both
hear voices,
voices,
all the time