One likes to think imagination’s madness Is not, found in oneself, a true derangement, Or that the mind could somehow gain by practice Some saner, more agreeable arrangement. And, seeking something solid, humans strive, At least during the hours we are awake, To keep the moon from moistening our eyes, Alhough the endless effort makes us ache. Yet, just outside the separate self’s domain, Beneath the bland meniscus of the mind, A thing like madness dominates the brain, And those who open to it often find: The life that seemed so common in the day, Is beautiful when moonlight lights the way. ©2014 Jeff Thompson Music
Posted on: Wed, 26 Nov 2014 21:08:58 +0000
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