In a meditative mood, I sit here
and reflect on a world, sequestered
from the driving, droning masses.
Here, far from the maddening crowd,
with lunatics of all kinds, I share moments
of longing to be far from here. I share moments
of great intensity, of great sorrow,
and of great otherness I can give to words.

Call it sanctuary, a refuge, or shelter,
call it what you will.
But here, I am God, the Devil, the Queen;
here we are imagined souls of grandeur
acting the parts beautifully, empathetically.
So that we mutter the incomprehensible,
yet know we are here in retreat for a while.
No other place offers this necessary respite
from the rationalized, dizzying world,
except perhaps Gray’s country churchyard,
which provides a serene abode for the
dwellers of the “lowly beds” and “narrow cells”.

Although some of us join these dead people,
mostly we ride the storms here in our asylum.
This is not to romanticise our retreat,
for many faults are here;
for many fears are realised in horrific detail.
Sometimes there is great suffering and no succour,
but here we have come to know of the fickleness
of life’s character, and, for the time being,
we remain removed from the world,
here in our sanctum.

We demand our right to asylum,
for somewhere to be at those times
when turmoil and chaos destroy
our minds and those beyond.
Here we sail away with the wind in our hair,
and we are the Ship of Fools.
We embark on a journey to all asylums
through all ages, where we meet
with fools and jesters who show us the way.