A Madman

There is only one difference between a madman and me. The madman thinks he is sane. I know I am mad. - Salvador Dali. He received a letter from her, with her beautiful poem inside Words wrapped in a colorful rainbow, words full of dreams and love He was dying to unfold the letter, yet he kept it aside, unopened , on the table He had something to tell her, before things could bypass the day thoroughly. It is late night now, blinds are to be closed, curtains are to be drawn Only some words are waiting to arrive, He knows they will, a thing certain Those words are supposed to drop on his open notebooks, on a softer drizzle These are supposed to drop from the porous clouds, to embrace the soil. He closed his eyes in utter agony, he was feeling blank before the white page Muse are bound to come by, It should not be anything for an hour or so late Still, he could not write a single line, he could not think of a word to start with Surprisingly he saw. those words of his open notebook, forming into a butterfly That magnificent, huge butterfly was merging with his clouds of thought Then he felt he is in his incomplete dream of yesterday, in midst of pain! He tore the poem apart, it was lying all over the floor in hundreds of pieces. He does not need life's mercy now, he cannot afford to do anything but try. Again.