If I had not been fashioned so I turned
With squeals of madness, manic and depressed,
My pivot split, my squeal would not have earned
Daubed salve of psychiatric wards, a guest;
And had they not have lubricated sheen
Of therapy, anointed me with oil,
I might still spin within the cult-machine
And rotate under its control and roil;
Yet if I rolled along, to synch my psalm
With all Jehovah’s Witnesses, revolve
My life around their lies about Islam,
Then I would tread down truth, doubts unresolved.
So, who shall call the shrieks of wheels a curse,
When God the Fashioner has let me live?
O I am cracked, yet all my clan’s creed’s worse:
I get the grease Allah alone can give.
The liars lay in wait; I knew their knock;
I fled my fireplace for safer steps –
A new address no gangster intercepts,
Or so I hoped, and yet I shook in shock.
My scientist had sent me different drugs,
And this, too, terrified me with the thought,
When I was all alone, of being caught,
Beyond sweet reason, by the thrusting thugs.
But, as I neared my napping, then my brain
Heard someone standing, stealthy, in my hall,
Who sought to turn my doorknob, threaten all
My awful heartbeats, leave a scarlet stain.
I dialed the blue lives; when their searchlights shone,
They lit a madman; I had been alone.