When does a madman know that he,
Himself,
Only him,
Has fallen into the dark confines of madness?
How does he know if he's simply dipped,
A finger,
A taste,
Of that pool of chaos and confusion?

Or, has he simply wrapped himself inside,
Between,
Underneath,
The blankets of insanity, feverish,
Wishing,
Dreaming,
So far into the pits of delusion,
That he himself no longer realizes,
His truths,
His lies,
His thoughts,
Are nothing but a wisp in the shadows?

He crawls through the underdark,
That horrific chasm of hope,
Praying to the deaf Gods,
That he may be spared?

Ah, foolishness!
His body quivers,
Hands clenched and yet,
Unraveled amonst the cottons of thought,
Words spoken only to himself.
A sign of lunacy?
Or simply,
Attempting to keep away from delirium?

Oh, other will come,
Oh, they will,
Comfort him and tell him,
He is fine,
He is sane,
He can think and reason and do...
But just a physical shell they comfort,
And not him,
Not his lonely mind.

Yes, within himself,
Within his thoughts,
Within...
Within...
Within...
He dwells alone,
For only he can pull himself away from madness.






Penned by my hand on the 8th of Ferinus, in the year 541 AD.