Madman, I think.

That is what I have become. A Madman.

My visions of what are, what were and what is to be, all splashed with the hues of passions and dreams of the touched. I unravel at the seams to become something new, or possibly my truest nature. My days are filled with imagination and delusion and passion and something else…something I can’t quite comprehend. A sensation of impending glory. As if I stand above the battlefield at dawn, knowing victory before the first salvo is fired.


Lost to the ghost of a woman never met. Slave to a construct of beauty and grace, wanton desire and insatiable thirst, willfully strong and openly vulnerable. An angelic whore, a beautiful beast, a complex companion for the blinding days of heavenly sunlight and the torrential storms that wreak havoc and pass. A worthy foil for dark nights of feral exploration and exploitation, hers and mine. A legendary love that shames others by mere exisitance.

My mind has surely fractured, ruminating over those women that exhibit false signs and the mirage of fantasy made reality. Like to tear out my own beating heart and cast it away as the main offender of my current state of mental anguish, the enemy and guide of my basest needs and lost fears.

My mind is maddened by the possibility and probability. And yet…this sickness of the heart is a curable malady. Even realizing this condition is rendered from bitter longing and conditional isolation that even the most wizened apothecary would balk, I feel an unearthly, benevolent power whisper…soon.

Of course, I’m mad, but I listen and wait.




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