Mad Mary stands at the edge of our world,
weeping in her hands.
Sobbing for the deeds of man,
no one understands.
Dressed in rags a beggars shroud,
her face is drawn and pale.
Marys' eyes fixed distant stare,
the horror thinly veiled.
She sits sedated in her room,
they say she's doing fine.
The cosmic murmur is subdued,
if only for a time.
William VanDorin � 2001
