Bent

a sonnet

Hundreds of lunatics live in this madhouse
(who would have guessed looking from outside)
and the gate dances at all hours of the day,
dances and welcomes new guests each time.

They all bring a dream, a crime, a vice
they were emperors or czars in faraway lands,
and in their faces, masks of awe or diablerie,
who knows what atrocious wants they celebrate.

It frightens, anguishes, to look them in the eye
and, behind the bars and bolts and shackles,
they disintegrate in anxiety and daft ambition.

My body, bent hospice for the raging mad!
Surrender to my encaged yearns and lusts,
and let them rise above the world!