Days are spent here; in the wild marsh
Of bramble and thorn
Every prick a haunting kiss--
A promise for much worse.

There is no solace
In a kaleidoscope of indulgence--
Do not be fooled, sickness crafts
These illusions.

The forest thrums.
It hums to keep
Its resident rabid.
Driven to madness by the

Refraction of light, blind.
There is no single truth to find.
Simply delusion, misdirection,
A mirror of exchanging blame.

Madness
Has a home next to my heart.
Perhaps an infection, an infestation.
I tried to make a home of it.
Instead it made a host out of me.