When it didn’t make sense we were free. They told us to piss off first— go make the mess so there’d be no abortion to freedom Though sense has a heavy thirst. A million shoulders shrugged until they found the one, the one who could hold attention a second too long. We sang his songs. Filled his halls. Then whispered in corners where innocence learns how to die. He stood in the light so long he became understood. So understood he lost his mystery. They took the throne away, sent him wandering, lost to history places where reverence masquerades as dignity. He cut his long golden hair. Then heaven sent him among infinity. Only a few still carry his pamphlets, his name stamped in bold, folded thin from too much handling. Often found in hands gone ice cold. It makes perfect sense— raise the red-veiled bride, call her sacred, then burn her alive out false righteousness lifted from a book that took peace from the curious. Losing the sense of it all is the only thing that’s ever been sacred enough to heed the call Not the posture of idealists who claim they’re above the clouds until atomic rain starts a coming down. They'll duck into their vaults of certainty So proud they'll walk on lines allowed. Make sense of it. until there are no tables left to turn, no cables left to pull, No prophets to burn. No rules to be ruled. Until the drama handed to you threatens neither god nor fool. The dunce hat never made sense, but at least it told you where you stood. Sitting on the black stool, In an idle thought room while the rest of the world dissolved, hooded judeges swearing at every so-called new beginning. I think I remember that man’s song. And I got a melody to go along