This way madness does not so much lie,
As recline, like a patient lover awaiting
The inevitable return of the fickle friend,
Knowing that you might not write or call
But you will return downcast and contrite
To the loving arms of one who understands.
Going mad might be like going home
After being long exiled by sanity.
It might be easier than this ceaseless vigil
That watches my thoughts, even idle ones,
And scans them for the wild signs
That presage lunacy, and with the sharp kind blade
Prunes them hard back, cutting away
All hint of disease in hopes that the root
Will put forth healthy growth and blooms
That would not disgrace a Chelsea show.
Not then the strange flowers that fill my dreams,
Weird colours and malformed heads
Nightmarish and compelling in their way
As a car crash or lightning in the night.
Maybe madness is the way for me
To cultivate the crazy blooms of unchained mind
And bring to light some single thought
Never seen before today.