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.
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