The Neurosis of Me

Is it intuition, a nagging splinter in my moratlity There was a time i believed in signs, today i wish that faith renewal A murder of thoughts pluck at those digits That clasp on reality is loosening one by one For every door there is a window, for every window pain there is a dying dream What keeps vigil over my thoughts is but a silhouette She outlines an angel, yet a gargoyle snals its contempt I accept it simply as a projction of the turmoil inside me Humanising itself only to strike me down and patronize with glee Granted I am a troubled man, my bread is buttered and burnt I and it will never change, my bread will always burn