The consumption of her crumbling madness
amuses me, till the sighting of a shooting star
calms my roaring laughter. She shifts.

My world revolves on an axis
that does not coincide with her atlas or her
madness made of moulds of myopia

She speaks in three, a plan to include thee
Repentance mixed with madness or despondency
A caravan full of devil’s dust, and I, an absentee

Her fits impresses upon the hallucination
so I gaze at it with her until it gazes back at me
Madness, isn’t it lovely?

Her feet cruise on the dew my eyes ooze
She presses the snooze, and I, a prisoner of madness
no longer feel amused.