The Law of Hearts

I:
We are all Mad here - at least
so all the Great Poets, and the rest
of the Sages from the ages tell us.

Justifications? Perhaps - but perhaps
justification is the only sanity left
to the mad in a world hell-bent on denying
the beauty of its madness - choosing
the shelter of supposed sanity. -
And who among us may truly say
who is mad? And who is sane? If I am mad,
they say I cannot know my madness -
but if we disagree? Then you are mad
to me.

Great debate has raged over the man
born good, turning bad - and the man
born bad, striving to become good -
and we must not forget those who ask
"What is good? What is bad? What
if we simply are? Good, Bad, Nothing
but social perceptions and conditionings?"

And what if? What if that Is all that there is -
what if all the rest is a burning of time until
we have become ready for the truth
which was always there - inside our Self?

Would That
be a Madness?

II:
These words, others just scratched; you ask -
did I write them? Did I write them for you? Were I
a more socially refined fool, no doubt I would say
"No". Were I more suave I would say "Yes" -
and were I more wise? I might say nothing.
Being neither refined, nor suave, nor wise,
I would instead say the words are naught
but a thought felt, and lost, before being
half-captured.

That they - like all words - belong to those
who find something in them. That they were sparked
weeks, months - years, perhaps lifetimes
ago - germinating until your thought
and my thought collided in an unintended,
unforeseen, meeting; an endless fornication of word
with pen; the inescapably constant copulation
of thought and paper dancing through our individual,
and indivisible, conscious unconscious-nesses.

I would say that they are your words, that they
are my words, and that they are our words -
that they belong to no one, and they belong to all
who encounter them.

III:
You accept the knowing of your madness -
the madness to live, the madness to grieve and to love,
the madness to hope - and to be. But then, claiming
to have not yet found the wisdom of such madness,
flattering a fool, ask of him the wisdom your words
express knowing through the claiming of not
knowing - you ask if one can hope?

And how is he to answer? To lay claim to the mantle
of wisdom your words bestow is to disprove
your kindness in the very act of accepting -
as the humble cannot claim humility, and remain
humble - can wiseness lay claim to wisdom
and remain wise? He thinks not, offering
in its stead, nothing - but experience
and observation.

Hope? We Always have that - even when we are certain
none exists.

We try - We try where there is only failure.
We dream - We dream where there is barren land.
We are possibility - We are possibility where there is no possibility.
We hope - We hope when there is nothing but despair.
We live - We live where all is dead.
We love - We love where there is nothing but the cold darkness.
We are joyful - We are joyful where everything is grief - and
We grieve - We grieve where there should always be joy.

This it is what it is to live by our hearts - and this,
this they say, is what it is to be one of the lonely;
one of the truly,
endlessly,
beautifully,
Mad Ones
My Friends.

it does not matter who you be, how you love, or how
you grieve - every Joy that is yours, is another's Grief.
And every Grief which you possess? Another's Joy.

This is the unwritable, unspeakable, immutable, Law
of Hearts.

Madness is nothing more then the hearts that know
their Grief is Another's Joy - and find Joy
in that Grief...

If this is madness, I will choose such insanity and walk
among the few that live - rather then embracing a sanity
which dooms us to shuffle through this world with a billion
dead souls.

_{(To a Friend :: Apr 12, 2011 @ 01:58)}