Speaking with Sanity
Something in the moonlight foretells of trouble:
an event coming to threaten my stability-bubble;
a happening that would abandon me beneath masses of rubble;
to locate me would be an assignment for the Hubble.
Something in the scent of the air hints at collapse;
this would occur when my Sanity, once again, snaps.
My Sanity is a hotly-contested issue
by the voices within my head (who speak only that which is true).
Then my Sanity debates with them also:
how are the voices informed? He and I want to know.
Sanity and I are friends, acquaintances from years past;
we know all about all about each other,
but the words I spoke to him last
were that his existence depended on the actions of another.
This he could not quite understand –
he was already there; he was, after all, not created by a minion.
I had overplayed my poorly-reinforced hand;
I had caused obstruction between this and the next pinion.
I had said words planted by an authority-grasping boy; irrational –
grappling for control of me like a grounded, desperate fish gasping for air,
he chased me down as a ravenous fox a hare;
my capture and confinement would be simply sensational.
Sensation is something which I definitely am not.
I am hardy and mighty enough with what I fairly and innocently encompass.
He is more interested in things cunningly and dishonestly added to his lot;
his ill-placed influence is one I can not possibly miss.
And so Sanity and I discuss matters far above anyone’s head.
I would rather do so, in any case, than retire to the stifling reclusion of my bed.
Speaking with Sanity is a pastime of mine;
whether I still have any left is neither this side nor beyond the questioning line.
© Annalinde Louw 2005
This piece was written on 27 October 2005
I found this image using http://www.google.com.