The Voices in His Head

My friend who trod where angels tread

Spoke of the voices in his head

Inventions, fictions and the dead

All talked to him at night in bed

When logic, sense and reason fled

He clung like spiders do to thread

A person guided, driven, led

By voices anchored in his head

Stampeding through his brain, there sped

A bestiary that brewed and bred

With bits from books he claimed he'd read

And these became what filled his head

He listened, eaten up with dread

To what this spider-web had spread

A litany spat, shat and bled

A blood-red nightmare in his head

And though he heard the words we said

They came to him with meaning shed

And so he chose to heed instead

The words he heard inside his head

This weird world to which he's wed's

Become his butter, beef and bread,

And dead ahead, the path he'll tread

Alone within his undead head

They talk and he gives them full cred

No proof. In truth, there's none, no shred

Yet they're his all, his a-to-zed

The universe inside his head