"The Madness of Mortals"
She paces up and down, back and fourth - like a caged bluebird, used to roaming free in the skies, used to the feel of wind gliding past its face.
I am a cage unto myself, she thinks, unable to contain her hodgepodge of thought, this confused mass inside her head. She runs a frustrated hand through her hair, waiting for some sort of release, knowing one won't be found. She closes her eyes, listening to the inner voices of her soul, all telling her the same thing: I'd love to feel his presence, nay, I need to feel his mark on my skin.
500 days, she thinks numbly,
can it possibly be so long away?
The confession of her longing in her mind takes her to new levels of near-despair. So much dragging, so much hating, so much pushing, so much waiting . . . The delicate madness of knowing ambrosia is in your grasp and you lie locked in - boxed up - unable to reach it. How does one wait with the knowledge they are soon to become a god? Perhaps there is no way. Perhaps this is in the thoughts and hearts of every desperate, dark statistic that comes the way of easy law. This maddening almost-joy, this despairing anticipation. Sweet? Surely not! It is a wonder to itself that anticipation should be sweet at all. No, anticipation is . . . A tool of insanity, a tool of despair, a tool of the sadistic.
No more! She begs, a silent prayer to the gods,
I was born for freedom, yet my soul lies caged. How can time be so cruel?
No, no more. Anticipation is surely not sweet. Anticipation can kill - and it just might. She fears her soul may slowly fade, waiting for freedom as long as it has. No more cages, no more bars.
“I
am the caged bird that sings!” Her soul screams. It longs to know freedom. Freedom - a satisfying, sweet taste she imagines. Will she ever know? Will hallucinations become reality? Perhaps, but this thankless delay might just destroy her. She is so close, so meticulously close that she feels as if she might know what it is to be a part of something greater.
I long . . . for much, I long to know when all longing ends. Who could find joy in such lunacy? Surely lunatics themselves know better than to find joy in adjournment. She muses to herself, trying to find some sign of her own sanity. She shivers, deciding anticipation might have its merits.
Ah, what it is to be in love . . .
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Back to: Short Stories and the Like
My poems about Anthony: Lissa's Poems about Anthony
Poems about my Mom: Lissa's Poems about her Mom
My poems about suicide and selfdesructivieness: Lissa's Poems about Suicide
My poems about society(screw it): Lissa's Poems about Society
My poems about my beloved sisters: Lissa's Poems about her Sisters
My Misc. Poetry: Lissa's Misc. Poetry
My fantasy section: Lissa's Fantasy Poems
My Phantom of the Opera Fan Fic: A Fox-Glove Fairy Tale
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