If anyone can guess what this is about, they get a cookie.
Read and review, the usual.
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First Impressions of Madness
I once met a mad man, who whispered lies in tongue,
he spoke of Rome collapse and eventual destruction.
He explained it all while his eyes closed, telling of blind,
the insane, confessing of darkness we would never grip---
in the palm of his shade, on desert island pledges,
he spoke of mutiny against one self; gathering the harvest
sowing the discord, then giving the fruit of our labours.
In the asylum of the world he reasoned about justice,
claiming the woman didn't judge, because she was retard
to all she had once done. I asked him why he hated the courts,
he laughed twirling his cane and whispered to me jesters
will be jesters my little boy.
I could be a sword, an axe or mace,
or in the celestrial complexity a weapon
of beauty a morning star my jesters
of that you can be sure.
Something disturbed me about this gent,
his surreal grin, infinity eyes, a thousand
sneers planted on his brow. How he joked
and guffawed about turmoil and death--
spoke only in song before ending in a bow
A man came to me and offered a riddle,
whistle in the darkness or walk towards light.
In the hours I stood with the man, he mocked
my history and all my life. Played puppets,
and danced screaming, 'on with the show!'
As madness descended in these days,
I realized too late, the man had been sane.
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