The quiet child
of my worst nightmare
spills the blood red wine
and with stained fingers traces out
a map of my follies and blunders in life
as if to say that I am the sum of my mistakes
and never one thing done that was not an error
Yet they persist in whispering
They tell me things that scare me
Not a moment's rest
Not even waiting for daylight
Child of my running away from
He grins like a madman
at the madman in the mirror
The quiet child of my bad days
rages silent at the moon
while a symphony to the absurd plays
a madman in decay
looks back at me in the mirror