Though We Should Go Mad

though we should go mad, we mad ones spilling ink, all words, all tinny words, echoed valley of our minds, instead we fade with dreadful prattle, teeth in beds of powdered bone, lost to ragged children, wept mothers stumble cast, out far from humble hearth, new kings but different kin, roar a battle surge in ears, as death's dirge rattles, kith to none, and we search for some, hope is one, not as thought, in mist and sun would even wisest think we’d won, for only in denuded land, stripped bare, if to reach out, touched and be the one, dusted travel stain and done, yet now this night, this sleep, as if knowing half of earth awakes, keeps tap tap tapping, rattle key’d and paper worn, to laugh in the face of heuristic plans, while dancing mad in midnight’s moon, but as mortals, alas will do, hope in vain for sweet Erato’s swoon, the flesh wins now in sleep’s cocoon.