The Lobotomist

Sharpness of Apathy
                        

The needler pierces the brain again,

Spikey and juvenile,

Into tissues of thought,

Never beginning to care;

He assumes he can pierce it,

With no feeling, no disorganized thought,

The needler pushes,

From cortex to cortex,

Mingling with the indifference of neurons,

Severing the temporal lobe,

He hears a sound;

The tear of flesh,

Smiling now as he puts down the needle,

Hums to himself a familiar song,

And begins to rest.