Can insanity be useful?
I speak, talking out loud, reminiscing – by the window, alone.
What ancestors speak through me?
These myriad feelings flow through me, in light
and in darkness,
where the voices collide
like the heart, whose surface is furrowed,
resembling linen, in the early mornings.
There exists between the soul and the mind, a schism.
It bids me farewell, reason.
But the qualm remains still,
and so does the calm.
The schism, it hangs on a thread,
Is sanity inept?
Or insanity adept? I’ll never know.
But the delirium, it will stay home,
and the schism, persevere.