The Poetry of Madmen

Dark pounding depths crush in,
Bearing the soul to the depths-
And beat the flesh of the men,
Exacerbating the feeble breaths.

For amid the throws of death,
There comes a moment’s peace-
When the dark rolls back again;
The light springs from the east.

I am not dead, I cannot die,
And in this deepness I smile-
For I am the unknown madman,
Which walks this ashen mile.

Come hither to me: Come to me;
For I shall hold the worlds tide-
And bath in the blood now lost,
Buried; for herein all may hide.

I scribble upon my naked soul
I scrawl upon my vacant heart-
I write as only a madman can,
And let my pen play its part.

For life is trapped in paper,
And even death is held in ink-
As the poet scribes the tomb,
And smears the minds that think.

Hear me, Hear me, Hear me;
Hark I call and speak to thee!
For from this shroud of poetics,
I struggle and thus am free.

Unbound by withered intuition,
The tethers of sanity unwind-
And thus the madman appears,
From within the deepened mind.

Undone the body wracks heavily,
As the heart pounds the will-
And so the twisted men arrive,
To scribe the twisted thrill.

So with my sealed eyes I write,
And pen my mortal note-
For in the darkness I do see,
All realities, near and remote.

I feel the barren mountains,
Which stand on bases of stone-
I forge amid the forest's trees,
Still seeking hallows unknown.

I drift along with the wind,
And spread my feathers wide-
I didder through the desert,
Or in the dervish I ride.

I swell with the silent sea,
Amid the oceans calming waves-
I stand alone near the shores,
Of the might Styx and graves...

For my pen to write so madly,
Or my will to whither so true-
I must remain so near to death,
That I maurade amid the few.

With one foot on the clay,
The other resting in the fire-
I am mortal but yet so more,
As I burn with eternal desire.

So in this darkness I grow,
I grow and expound thus beyond-
And gather in this madness,
Those things of which may bond.

So write I must and thus do,
Forever until the bitter end-
And kiss the ink of my life,
For my madness I must defend.

For it is my madness I cherish,
This thrill of the open range-
Or maybe it may be the chill,
Of the fallen prone to change;

Come here: my little angel,
My Cherubim of night-
And kiss my dreams now lost,
Within this twisted light.

Come here: my winged angel,
My Seraphim of the dawn-
And touch my words now lost,
Strengthen them thy brawn.

Come here: my hushed angel,
My Archon of ages passed-
And ignite my soul now lost,
From the first till the last.

Here I stand within the walls,
Of my own tabernacle and tomb-
And grow the words of madness,
Within my naked borne womb.

And force this pen to kiss,
The papers lips and fiber-
To caress the parchments flesh,
With riddles madmen decipher.

So buds the rose of my words,
Bursting into the rare flower-
Which hovers there as a mist,
Words spoken, gone in an hour.

Or as a incense from the bowl,
Which wafts up to the senses-
And burns into the mind all,
Empowering barren defenses.

Or as a woman who dances slow,
Twisting her body into art-
Offering the lustful form,
But in an instant departs.

For I am the mist at dawn,
The feeble breath of dying-
For I am the mortar in bricks,
The salted widow now crying.

For I am the hero of the day,
The waking dream-a shadow-
For I am the stars at night,
Seen in the misted hallow.

But none shall know my song,
None shall hear my madness-
For it is penned within me,
Bound with my happy sadness.

My maddened words are silent,
A mime in the world now blind-
And you must peer deep and dear
To see them in thier kind.

As I stack these simple letters,
And teeter these words high-
I pile the sentences together,
Forming thoughts borne to fly.

My lips are stained with words,
My throat chokes on them now-
My heated flesh burns intently,
As the sweat bathes my brow.

My fingers are numb with thought,
My arms fatigued in scrawling-
My body is nearly broken now,
As my flesh starts the falling.

My mind is burdened heavily,
My nerves are shocked and pained-
My fibers strain to hold it all,
As the paper with ink is stained.

I scream the words, I scream,
But in this world of the mad-
There is not a soul to hear,
The happy screams of the sad.

So whisper now I now must,
And tell to my heart alone-
The duties of my madness,
And the words my pen shall hone.

And so my pen shall write,
Penning the songs of the dark-
And so my pen shall scrawl,
Penning the songs so stark.

Near my heart I pen my song,
And scrawl my scribbled word-
Kissing the deep of the night,
With a love never deffered.

With frizzled hair and tattered quill,
I strain my wayward eyes-
And bring to bear my heavy heart,
Before my failing breath dies.

For I have but a frail whisper,
That shall not be heard for long-
And once it is buried here,
It is dead, forever, and gone.

Laying in this darkness curled,
I grip my only savior tonight-
And scribble these last sentiments,
As the soul kiss's goodbye to light.

So from my Heaven inspired,
To the depths of my lone Hell-
I whisper the words of ancients,
That none but madmen can tell.

I whisper the words long gone,
Words that last not to long-
Within a thousand words,
Thus, my maddened song.