The Prison of the Senses

When solitude is a brutal beast
Justice mystifies instincts
makes them weak and suggestible
Fire has high destructive potential
it tarnishes the view, but the pain is mild
is like not knowing your name, your home
or lie in the sun listening to evil butterflies

and the ground on which our difficulties rest
is certainly not made of matter.
Put your hands in a black paint,
you will know what I mean.