' The Madness

Dawn breaks and another day is born to all who have risen from nights host of demons, like Incubi and Succubus, who prey upon labyrinth dreams, plagued by guilt of conscience; and the afternoon sun smiles, for it has no Faith or conscience, while Time moves its unequal hands, as twilight fuses the sunset in magnificent segway and fade, into the bowels of darkness the Archer pulls back his bow, persistently...hauntingly- by the ever rotation of clouds and shadows, the obsession known to be madness to they who play with the Tarot cards from sundown to the dark morning next; thinking of Time as circular pattern, round and round without merciful pause, like a carousel at a country fair, bobbing of horses in spirited dance, running hard, yet going nowhere, despite the frightened child burning her lungs from screaming for the horses to stop; like the dream you once stood over, watching yourself in dimensions, running from where you were running to, and the faster you ran, the further away your dream took you from it's conclusion, which be the tip and touch of Madness. © Frank James Ryan Jr./FjR MMXVII-All Rights Reserved