The Mad
only the women are loved.
with men, it's only the madness,
in and of its self that's used.--
and we are literary, too.
but you don't write it down
or even think it, any more.
it's just a desperate kind of feel...
yes, only women bleed.
and are loved, their bodies,
for it.
their emotional souls are held close.
"but he doesn't care about my mind."
well, there's more to you, that bleeds.
--this ink doesn't come from my body.
if i held you like a squid, with many arms
like an octopus?
you'd only love me for my pen.
not this madness that is a part of me.
not this root that grows a life
beyond us.--
madness is a kind of land,
of its own religion, of its own logic.
a pain to make the doctors see;
and a Hell to make the lover feel...
so this is the boat we share...
love is a mental illness,
where the waters that keep us afloat
are what keep us from the rest of the world.
--and in your mermaid logic,
you still pretend to drown in a place
where, together, we could be perfectly at home.
if others can see the many arms
of my mind, because
even my floating wreckage is washed up on the shore,
won't they be able to see the mirages
of your deserted dreams
when they well up in such dancing eyes:
that only the soul of a mad lady could form
a vision in such a time?
as ours?
is this "together" part of the shape
of another world than this one we share?
if both of us are mad,
which one of us is sane?
--is this the land of Cana?
or are you wearing the atheist's ring?
Copyright © Rhys Owens | Year Posted 2012
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