...Perhaps it is the twisted mind
who sees with clarity
knots and gnarls and winding roads
that seduce the visionary,
horrify the sane.
I march to the rhythm of my own heart,
listening for footsteps gone or coming.
A breed united by differences.
Sick or sound?
Build an asylum to cage our souls,
choke our thoughts, smother our words.
We will rise again like ghouls from a crypt.
Truth knows no death.
Silence speaks no truth.
I sing our song of lunacy,
the heritage of heretics,
an anthem to the spirit of those who have survived.
- Joanne Stepaniak, 1990
