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TITLE: The Writings of A Madman - 5/18/18 By 05/21/18 |
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To the morning, I shall travel, till the mystery I unravel,
Dreams that found me laid upon my bed.
Was I weak in my sickness, or the fog in its thickness
Did the shadows prance, prance within my head?
I must be dreaming, I wonder, subconsciously scheming
How the early light would surely find me dead.
A bottle of wine, merlot, cause to take this furlough
From reality, the night before I went to bed.
Perhaps, it was my writing when troubled I was fighting
Did the nightmares dance, dance within my head.
For paper and pen, I determined, could not defend
Its heart and soul for which I bled.
Yet, still struggling with desire, impatient, I require
To be free from this misery of the dead.
And the uncanny dreams, be it through whatever means
I will conspire, conspire within my head.
To be released, I pray, that I will not be fleeced
Of this life while lying silent upon my bed.
Perhaps through madness, surely, to relieve this sadness
Forgetting the cruelty on which the night has fed,
Nor would I remember as if some cold December
Laid memories, memories rotting within my head,
The dreams of a madman, the thoughts of a sad man
Where a writer sleeps troubled in his bed.
Should night call the sun to set, in its darkness, should I regret
To curse and write about that which I dread?
At midnight, sitting by the fire, I will refuse to retire
For the eerie shadows, shadows that will fill my head.
Speaking words to paper, planning their next caper
In attempt to unravel dreams sure to fill my bed.
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