J.D., Feb 6., 1992

	J.D., Feb 6., 1992

From a million covers I watch,
watch, but never speak,
those who feel themselves strong,
secure, never weak.
From their box or tube, guilt given,
my sanity they seek.

The issue's preposterous, premise absurd.
Do they know the mind's design ?
Who will rule as to whether I crossed
some significant, deadly, line.
The mad, the crazy, the antithesis of sane,
who challenges me to define ?

What disconcerts in my dead-eyed gaze,
the chill from what they see.
It's not the bodies, missing and found,
for I'll never again be free.
They fear to look in some glassy wall,
and see themselves in me.

Crime for gain, we can all explain,
feel safe in its rationale.
But some blows strike from a deeper plane,
akin to Pavlov's bell.
Scrub good and evil, descend new depths,
sit with me in my cell.

We all contain the best and the worst,
struggling for control.
Any man's act could be our act,
it depends on our resolve.
If thoughts were deeds, then birth's a crime,
and life is our parole.