Impressions of Madness ( a Bipolar Life)

I turn away the light of truth, though bright it shines eternally; as I now search the dark of youth for life devoid of history. Born filled with primal fear inbred (a wingless mountain butterfly) who waited trapped by wretched dread, within mad vision graves, to die. A body bent by rhythmic birth sucked marrow out of bone and brine as wounds leaked blood back into earth for earth gives refuge to Divine. The fragile cuts were foul and spent but no stitch thrown seemed obvious; its fabric labored, torn and rent by images grown spurious. And this we carry to our graves in extant bliss of ignorance. No worry worth the time it saves before the black of permanence. A life once sewn with threads of smoke, (translucent trend in lunacy) is but illusion's buried yoke of veiled and failed transparency