Madness

I simply love madness. 

What a pretty word, 

Certainly not sadness- 

Although they rhyme for sure. 

The Mad is quite deceiving, 

What a trick it plays! 

It almost likes believing- 

The fools on which it preys. 

A –ness may be the state of it, 

Complexity in its phrase- 

But if you start debating it, 

The madness turns a page. 

Madness lives in all of those, 

Who question of its kind- 

And might I offer solace, 

To the us in which it shines. 

This ness of mad is simply, 

An art of who portrays divine- 

Its critics are the ones who see; 

Yet often grab it blind. 

The writers that transcribe it, 

The painters that convey, 

The innocence of a child's mind, 

That grows from it one day. 

For madness is a cavern, 

A deep and sharpened wound- 

A light would be no savior, 

You cannot see more at noon, 

Madness is the feeling, 

Of beckoning the night; 

Yet peaceful in its beauty-

It often causes fright. 

For I will paint a picture, 

It may seem to appall, 

But madness is the rainbow, 

That you simply cannot draw.