by R.W.Dean
Madness,
Misunderstood,
Even by those who know
It’s names, but not where it comes from.
Turning dusty pages,
Trying to find
Answers,
When the
Truth stares at them
Through eyes, bright with desire,
Windows, open to the passion,
That fuels the fire, burning
Beneath all the
Madness.
Oh yes,
I see the love,
And the madness of it,
And how it burns even brighter
When shared, at a distance,
Just like teasing
Tigers,
Holding
Just out of reach,
An inch from tooth and claw,
The sweet, soft, object of desire,
Making what was a need,
An obsession,
Madness.
Sharing reality,
Can become so boring,
But offer a little madness,
Just a taste of passion,
And one small flame
Is born,
A flame,
Showing the way,
A path through paradise,
A place where dreams can fall like rain,
Upon a fertile ground,
And grow into
Madness.
Desire,
Played out in words,
Like playing solitaire,
Trying to find just the right card
To make them all line up,
Knowing the Queen
Of Hearts
Is gone,
And no matter
How much you want them to,
The hearts are never going to
Line up the way you want,
And the game is
Madness.
But still,
I write my words,
And send them on their way,
Thankful to have someone to share
The passion, and the love,
And mostly, the
Madness.