A Glorious Madness

Perhaps then, I am mad.
I see color where there is none,
hear songs where only the wind blows,
feel passion in a single touch,

I believe in God and love and hope
where there is no evidence,
not even a scrap,
my heart leaps like a rabid fire.

Colors are brighter to me than cameras can capture,
and the songstress on the corner sings opera,
but only, only
to me.

I see art…… where no artist has been.
History, despite the evidence,
is painted with a watercolor wash,
soft and pastel, ignoring the blood

that washed down the cobblestones,
and disappears with the rain.
I see love, where most see only death,
and the threat of death.

My feet dance in the summer moonlight,
high atop the quarry. my lips still thrill
at a single kiss,
flushed as a schoolboy.

And I mourn in beauty,
remembering, always remembering
that which was there, that which was imagined,
and that which was never spoken.

Perhaps then, I am mad.
a glorious madness, full of beauty
and fire that keeps me awake at night,
simply remembering,

remembering,
too much, far too much
for one mind to hold,
so much it spills out

in a madman’s lilting words,
in paint and photographs
of what is almost, almost

there.

About this poem

I do think I see the world a little differently. That’s not good or bad. It just is. Fortunately they can’t lock me up for seeing brighter colors, of feeling a kiss more than most, or looking out of windows and seeing art.

Whew!

Tom