simonhlilly

A LITTLE MADNESS

What else should we call it
but a continuity of forgetfulness?

A tumbled consequence
carried away with itself.

A singing river stumbled over stones,
worn down, meandered, lost in slowing meadows.

A skylark hovered in boundless blue sky,
bobbing above folded, dreaming summers.

A veda, a hymn though, still.
An ornament, they say, a precious jewel
winged with inevitable waking into timeless ways.

The proscribed drunken rambling of slow-breathed,
shine-eyed hermits brought wisdom in broken cupped skulls
by lithe, smiling dancers.

The tongue-tasted words, nectar-sung words,
scribbled on leaves in golden letters, bright as fire.

A little madness, a note held sustained far, far too long,
escaping reasonable doors of breath,
But going onward nonetheless.

A wonder, really, that we do not all, forever,
die of laughter.
Always so tragic and beautiful
this fragrant thorned life is.