The Madness


There's a wild-eyed madness lurking here,
Through dark corridors and misted walls,
Creeping along with reaching tendrils
Of ghastly intend and riven consciousness.
Here I run across trembling stone
With a sharpened knife in my hand,
Never stopping, always afraid,
Because one way or another
The madness always finds me,
And sometimes it's me who finds it first.
We come together in twisting desperation,
And with a parasitic proliferation it takes me,
Catching, pulling, digging, squirming
As I fall, fall, fall apart.
I close my eyes as here and there the knife strikes,
But I open them to an evanescent madness,
A bloodied knife, and gasping pain,
To find a sick reality in which I did not ravage the madness,
But have rent myself.
So here I carry the scars of a wearisome war,
Wondering which is the mad monster
And which is truly me if I am really here at all.
Maybe - dare I hope? - there will be a staggering finality,
And my blood with stain the sinister stone
With my last gasps of gaping breath.

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