Mad Villa(nelle)y

Sometimes the poem forms the thought through form, or helps hold a set of thoughts and feeling that would struggle to otherwise express themselves in words. The following arose from one such occassion a few weeks ago…

A Madness

There’s no space here for wrong or right –
the split through you and I which they call sane.
Pain becomes the wings by which we fly.

It’s only silence when you feel it’s not quite
clear, demanding stillness from the foaming rain –
there’s no space here for wrong or right.

Sense dances through the walls in noise and light – 
not counterpoint; the growth around its claim –
pain becomes the wings by which we fly.

A vision testing bounds of depth and height
disorientates like oil spilt on the pane –
there’s no space here for wrong or right.

It rainbows around the subject, clasping tight
then loosening like notes held in sustain –
pain becomes the wings by which we fly.

That subject – us – unshackled by divides
that soothe the impact of the valent strain –
there’s no space here for wrong or right –
pain becomes the wings by which we fly.



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