Madness

The Madness of Lykourgos, Apulian red-figurevase C4th B.C., Antikensammlungen, Munich

I know it is madness. Madness as is thought to be. Madness even if madness is not the madness most men of madness claim to be, mad. Madness as a pure thing of madness itself. Madness as a separation from the world and a union with the cold night of remembrance where creatures and their memories haunt and scurry with little regard for their doings and little care for the temple that holds them. Madness is a yoyo without a string, but one one plays upon with no notice. Madness is winter alone without cold or ice but that is all that is there. Madness is a string with no nest for a broken blue ova. a red robin weeps and we call it a song. Madness is all the songbirds no longer and madness is the sameness of all things that once diverged. Madness is now, madness is here, madness all around us. Madness.

Donald L. Brooks

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