If by reason
I need to follow
I would rather be mad.
To follow is to lose
the shine of darkness and
my world in its empty delight.
Velvety moss,
dipped in hollow verses
when I lay I look and imagine
to fly to cry.
To fly, I went
and held in my hands
the yellows, the blues, and the reds
until each dies into black abyss.
And looking down
eternal deaths in a maze
half in the glinting sun
the rest in the sight of lune.
Strangle the Strange 