Reverie

In the throes of madness, Some have said acuteness of the senses is a level no man can know unless he himself is mad A return to instinct allows the senses to guide you through the work that's to be done A heart broken--- knows how to guide a blade quickly across the wrist or anothers throat You sing a 'melodious plot' with "full-throated ease" but a refrain in the illusion of hope At the thought of the faked horizon or a child's laughter and we carry on even when we stop in the snow mesmerized by the sweep of easy wind or downy flake Conscious of the palsy shake of old men That allow us to be in love with easeful death. The whistle of the nightingale or the whisper of the the snowy wind Or in the end we sing of sunsets or sorrow full well knowing tomorrow is not our old friend.