Somewhere out there just before the horizon ends
Sits a turnip farmer all alone,

Talking about how the 7 deadly sins are stitched into every fabric, every Fibre of the universe
The worms stuffing their faces with greed and vegetable, stop to listen to him intently
As do the turnips, the soil, the nothingness and  even a prophet or two,

He talks and talks, that's all he does
About an old paint bucket rotting in a garbage island
The phallic shadows of the pillars of St Peter's
The hiss of aerosol filled with hatred and hunger
The ache in his groin for a basic purpose

Around 3000 miles east from where he is
I lay on the floor gazing through my ceiling,
The sky is purple for me here,
The fan yellowed by age and dust makes for a pretty sun,

Not able to speak but fully able to scream
I am stuck here imprisoned, in the solitude of my own mind
The greatest puzzle is not in the heavens, not in the earth, it's between our ears
The most misleading maze ever built,

Which or how many of the 7 sins are in me ? I hear him ask
Through the whisper and the waves of the wind
which shatter the silence of my prison cell like frost,

I have nothing to say to him ,
His sermons are for those who know their way out of the maze
All I have done is burn the whole thing down
Mind numb, thoughts indifferent, passions all extinguished
Living in limbo till the final summon