There is a tunnel between here and there,
that place to which I wander when I sleep.
There is no great light, though it is well lit.
It leads nowhere though many wander it,
the lost, broken and fearfully ignored.
Great trains of thought rumble over my head,
Their freight of dreams to feed the minds of men.
What muses then wander these deeper paths?
These lonely tunnels, their anorexic light,
that bleeds and bleaches colour from the night.
I hear them muttering just 'round the bend.
Gnostic prophets; their senile visions dark.
What drives these to run screaming from the day?
To squat in filth and stare with gleaming eyes
at their hoarded piles of dirty trinkets?
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