RonaldCoone

The streets are a symphony of shadows,neon tears bleeding into cracked pavement, wherethe voices of mad prophets echo between skyscrapersbuilt by hands that forgot their own humanity.I walk among them, my mind a jigsaw puzzle,the edges sharp, the pieces mismatched,collecting fragments of truth from the gutters of time. What is sanity but a prison, I ask the gray-faced menin their suits of authority,their voices like static, their promises brittle as dead leaves.What is madness but the freedom to see the worldunveiled, raw, without the soft veil of lies? The alleyways are my temples,the graffiti my scriptures,painted by ghosts who screamed their philosophiesinto the brickwork, hoping someone would listenbefore the rains of indifference washed them away. I search for God in the burning neon crosses,in the rusted church bells tolling in rhythmwith the pounding of a desperate city's heart.I find fragments of divinity in the cigarette smokeof a woman weeping under a streetlight,her