Madmen

The world is inherently ugly,

Dull as the thud of death

Muddled in everyday indifference –

 

The very reason poets

Look to the sky,

And madmen (like I)

 

Cannot stop

Scratching the surface,

Scarring parchment skin,

 

In hope of striking scarlet gold,

Buried away by leprechauns

With sorrows old.

 

Bleed.

Bleed now,

My dearest.

 

For the world depends

On the declotting

Of this sentiment.