In dying embers I write my name,
in trodden paths there is dying shame
in the lingering minds of the days gone by
are tea leaves patterns in a language sublime.

Madness, like rodents, scurries in pairs,
when one pulls you further, the other despairs.
The voices I see and the faces I hear
are not real, but that is neither here nor there.

In the grooves between my split mind
there is a map of an eternal conquest,
it runs down to the corners
of this enchanted world,
and boasts answers to those questions
of which you've never even heard.