I Am Bound to Slip in Here

The ward was visually something, vacant
But for a window, through which we could see
Nothing but wind: how they kept us.
The voices would say, “Sobriety is the only way:
You may have created everything.” Oh well. I ignored this
And went to see the wizard—my name for him;
But I was too scared tonight: “Doc—why am I doubting myself?”
I wanted so many answers to come, or I didn’t,
Or I was on a ward—or only hiding further and further away;
And he replied, “Because you never were sure, were you—so why
Would you be now?” Thank goodness! That moved things along nicely.

I am bound to slip in here: they clean the floors too much;
They want us to fail so the project continues—which
Is fair: they need protecting from all our rubbish.
I am a disaster, but it’s not because of their models, rather
It’s due to me also calling those freer than me “nuts” too. And I’d silence them
If history had seen me fit—if Foucault’s razor had done me kind: the things
I design. But I am too much of a true thing, which is not
Visually something (who would admit to that to their partner?);
So I will stay here in my head with the wizard, who
May exist; though it makes a good story nonetheless.
And he could only dream of balancing this well.