Quiet, Which Will Not Be Quieted

Madness. One
of those words we so often use
in jesting manners for wild humors, ideas -
describing things thought, said, done -
things we would never be given to think,
say, do, in normal, rational
states.

But I wonder - I ask you,
is it such a jest? Such
a good way to poke fun
at ourselves - at others?

Have you ever sat alone

in a quiet room -
in a quiet house -
on a quiet hill -
surrounded
by quiet Doug Fir
and Cedar, disturbed
only by the quiet winds
of the coming winter whispering
through branches and rain tapping
incessantly
at the window panes?

And in that house -
in that room -
nothing to be heard except
your breathing - the creak
as finger bones scrape
along joints with each stroking
of the keys; the fridge
in the next room muttering
to itself, and the old Sherwood
tries to drown the quiet
with old blues and ballads
and rages -

tries to quiet
the quiet
which will not
be quieted.

Voices,
thoughts,
screaming in endless
silent processions
through your mind
reminding the mind
of all the things the mind
has not yet begun - the mind has
broken.

Have you been to that place?
In a state like this? Not
for hours. Not for days. Not
for weeks. Not for months. A year -
more - have you listened to the voice
of sanity masquerading as madness
until sanity began to doubt sanity?
In turn considering the terrible thought;
the doubt of sanity which guarantees
you are completely
sane?

Have you been to this place?
Is madness such a jest
Now?

_(08-31-2010)