When high atop my mountain perch which towers far within,
I look back on my memories of places that I’ve been
As I tread through mud and fog and sand in echoes of the past,
There’s danger in my visits there – I may never come back

The phantoms take me drifting down a wandering, nightless road
Where thought and sound and sight are king, one endless twisting show
Yet down this trail I wander oft to rest, my soul to mend
A fearsome track to all who come, this path which knows no end

For mingled with these memories of what I’ve done and said
Are thoughts and sounds and images created in my head
Those twisted, haunting, faded thoughts aren’t memories at all,
But mockeries of all I’ve had, or dreams I never will

This endless hall of passageways, my carnival of freaks
Collect in tangled, twisted mass, till I for them do seek
Here every tortured, happy thought to cross my aberrant mind
Lie, wait for me to sort them out – wisdom or solace to find

I walk my hall of passages, finding trinkets on the shelves
Perusing countless oddities peculiar to myself
Where each and every ornament is set in its endeavor,
To catch my mind and keep me there - to hold me trapped, forever

I come back oft yet cannot stay in the land of make-believe,
Reality’s a spiteful lord who’ll not long stand reprieve
Oh, how much better it would be to stay lost in the dreams
For here where everything is real, she’s far away from me

Yet here I stay, for here I must – to this life I am bound,
And the inner sanctum made of me lies buried in the ground
But I’ve traveled many distant shores through mud and fog and sea
And on my post above the world my shadows wander free

-Ben Hansen