The Message is Hidden

 

In another time what they did would seem tame

We were released to the courtyard to count
That is, to count every grain of sand

We did just that, finding finite of the infinite

The mentally broken, never well, and insane

A day of labor spent in service to the commands

Spirits willing to play with each diseased mind

Obeying a list of rules from a language, arcane

Each mind practiced its own set of rules

Then made to seemingly endlessly stand
Until we broke for a cigarette
Our singular form of pleasure
Labeled as contraband

“One ought to hold on to one's heart; for if one lets it go, one

soon loses control of the head too.” Friedrich Nietzsche