How do you know when you've gone mad?
Is it when you start to question it?

Does it creep up on your midnight pillow
ever so slightly
and drain your life like you use to gulp your morning coffee?
All while whispering in a form that could only be heard by wind chimes
expecting nothing less than what you've already lost.

Infectious with madness
A deal with the devil
A meeting of chance
A sound that should have been made
but on that very note it would all decay
amidst the stars that shine near the harboring bay.
No expression to convey.
If only there were another way
But like time, your eagerness whittles away
When theres nothing to say, no rock left unturned
you yearn
you yearn
Unlike others yours comes with disgust.
And by you I mean Me.