The voices beneath the façade
And ghosts flashing like light bulbs
The horizon seen through a narcotic pipe
Where creatures rise from dust and glitter
It is said that they are merely made-believe creations
Of the warped mind, yet they look at Nash
The numbers swimming in his head
And the theories that vortex like whirlpools
And in this ocean of abundant catch
They say lies a beautiful mind
Yet man is far from a mere angler of numbers
After all it is only a single digit – ‘one’
That defines man and his reason to live
His search for the ‘one’ for his soul
And realizes that all the craziness in his head
Is nowhere close to the madness of one feeling
After all, love is a psychotic episode
When you can only fall head over heels
Bamboozled by an arsenal of chemicals
To which there is no remedy or drug
Only a lifelong occupancy
Of chronic folly.



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