Madman

Calmly,
Selecting paths,
Creating waves,
Inciting ink to flow across the page.

Could passion prompt dissention,
Will force destruction,
Confound,
Obstruction.

From orderly possessions come stupidity,
Expectations of normalcy,
Employed action,
Disdain.

Reflections,
Obscure the view,
Deflect,
Correct my step.

Tomorrow needs for nothing,
Yet somehow,
Demands,
What sweet folly is this?

We are but sparkling dust,
Dissolved from error,
Escaping,
Disarming chuckling spirits.

Another night,
Perhaps another evening will confirm,
Reality,
Is but judgement.

What greater reason could we need?
Immortality springs forth from word,
From thought,
From misunderstandings.

Capture this script,
Hold it to the flame,
Burn,
And be satisfied.

For I have chosen to walk the path,
Not stroll, but march,
Not whole,
But longer still.

Bleeding,
I finally see the man,
Composed of infinite metaphors,
Wrought of silver.

Purchased from the tortured shadows,
Justified,
Escaping mere innocence,
Seeing nothing in my past.

Rebellion is a sin,
Which frees the soul,
Shackles,
Only the wrists.

Madman,
I hear voices,
Directing prosperity,
Feeding on tension alone.

This day is over,
Dying,
Repercussions exacting,
A measured tone.

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Roll Back the Curtain

Three stories,
Performed in sequence,
Bathed in moonlight,
Intriguing no one.

A young harp,
Carved of ash,
Polished smartly,
Left to rot.

The mummer’s maiden,
Seen from stage right,
Dreams of silver,
Ashamed to sing.

A world grown colder,
Her eyes turned down,
Believes in nothing,
Smiles alone.

When did this happen,
Who gave the order,
Where was the poet,
What let us down?

The babes of springtime,
Deceived by autumn,
Roll back the curtain,
Unveil the scene.

For all that’s certain,
Is come tomorrow,
And all that’s hollow,
Today abounds.