are fugitives from hell,
Escapees from death pursued by pain.
The truth they left behind makes truth insane;
Each nightmare is a truth they know too well.
Reason is unreasonable when words
Are whips that drive believers to the kill,
Necessary to sustain a will
Stirred by the sweet morning songs of birds.
Decencies are frills to put aside
As hearts are hardened for the jolting ride,
Yet on return are clamped and hardened still.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon