What a weird world,
of purple hues,
and soft blues
that waver over
the rippling water
as I ponder
this world askew.

See the silver swirls
of salty friends
who fall in and swim
then leap out again.

Watch the madman
paint a trashcan,
making the canvass melt
with the insanity he felt
as all his pigments bleed
but never die;

Being more immortal than I
these thoughts fly,
then descend in
the brains of younger men,
till the poetry
comes flowing free,

and they bring the artistry
of madness
to another generation.