I am criminally insane,
I am caustic and urbane,
your greatest artistic abortion,
your lesser autistic devotion.

I am meant for greener grounds
where my footfalls echo, sounding
like devotions to the stones,
and the marrow in my bones
adds to the cacophony.

We're running out of bounds,
running out of time.
With nothing left to eat--
there's nothing left to rhyme.

Save mine, I save yours.
We are meant to see the eagle that soars
from our nowhere-nothing perch.