The top is spinning, and the line
That runs through it is still
In that centre lives
A man; ignorant of himself,
Entombed by four walls,
The walls are spinning
He is the Insane man;
Being born again and again
But never dying
There he lays unmoving
Caught between life and death
Stuck in the midway
He is the insane man,
A dead mans’ dream
Steeped in sin
Smeared in blood
Sticky and sick
A man
Who has become his
Own shadow
He is the insane man;
Falling into abyss
But never hitting the bottom
His eyes are dead
Blinded by unrealized dreams
His body is decaying
Eaten by moths
But his lungs are breathing
Breathing in rot
He is the insane man
Death is beckoning him
But he has no strength to move
The walls are crumbling
The top is spinning
The man within lies
Undying, unmoving
He is the insane man
And epitome of ignorance
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