In the depths of night, alone he writes
His pen, a sword, his mind, in flight
But in his thoughts, a shadow creeps
A madness that never sleeps
The words he writes, they twist and turn
His mind, a fire that cannot burn
In every line, a touch of pain
A sorrow that cannot be tamed
His words once flowed, like a gentle stream
Now they scream, like a haunting dream
His mind, a maze, a twisted path
A journey that will never last
The poet’s madness, it takes control
A darkness that swallows his soul
His words, a poison, a deadly brew
A madness that only he knew
His mind, a prison, he cannot escape
A darkness that cannot be shaped
He writes and writes, until the end
A madness that he cannot fend
The world may see, a poet’s art
But in his mind, a raging heart
A madness that never fades away
A price he must forever pay
So let his words, be a warning tale
A poet’s mind, a fragile veil
For in the depths of his despair
His madness, a permanent snare.
:: 02.23.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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