The madman works
Toils towards
An unknown purpose
Be it brushes or pens
Canvasses of color
Or lines in loose leaf
Emotions are erratic
Nothing is static
Everything is always
Moving towards something else
Nothing ever stays the same
The truth is change
With only little windows
The truth is
Tiny pockets of time
Emotions translate to
Déjà vu
The universe of experiences
Encapsulated in one mind
So the madman makes what he can
With what he was
Or at least how he remembers what he was