Mad(ness)
Words, I am told, are capable of
infinite truth.
But no such things describe what
goes on inside of me.
I’ve yet to grasp the single syllable
inherently obvious.
Dark, mysterious trembling rage
from the center of my soul.
Distant thunder signaling a storm
that is already past.
I’m left suffocating…
in the solitude we old soldiers prefer.
My dependence on man’s definition
of Life
towers beside my shadow –
insisting that I slowly tighten
the noose hung ‘round my neck.
Am I mad?
Is that the definition of me? Of you?
- The single syllable –
Inherently obvious…
©Bruce “Doc” Melson
September, 1990
