a thicket of light in the wave of time-

dull quick sound
a heart in gauze
the white box lies.
the poor heart beat.
it's strong
the waves in the water.

will it run over?
will it fill itself to the ends?
have a heart?

what are the pronounced things?
where do they stem?
how far do they grow?..
into the heart.
i have no jeweled feeling
they have no discourse.
i float along..
they fret nothing.
i will survive.
who hold them on high?
who's opinion really matter
on these matters?
i will not have this in my heart
which lies
in the gauze
and bleeds for the fools
and the misunderstood.

pour another drink on the unfretted
heart.
watch it twitch
let it burn.
because the dead
burn more brightly
then the living.
illusions are forever
fact is a trick
fiction is a second-hand
and the stories are told
in a box down the street
where the heart lies.

which will it be
truth or imagination?
the children know
and they play on the grounds
of dreams.
rebirth in the white box
that lies in and about lies.

i love children
there hearts beat strong
on the other side.
fools..
drunkards...
deadbeats...
live.

---

     Lincoln Sward resides somewhere in the folds of everyone's brain. He is just a figment of the everyday man's or woman's imagination. It would be nice to say that he is the one who causes those flashes of brilliance within one's mind, but he is definitely not the Ego or the Id. What is the purpose of the Lincoln, and why has It sputtered out fragments of sentences and called it poetry, if that is even what you want to call it. I guess for the common good of mankind, or maybe to keep each and every one of us out of the Crisis Unit of the Psychiatric Ward, but what ever his reasons they are always for the perpetuation of the duality of life and the constant struggle between Good and Evil.