Insanity wears a truss of silk,
a garment of silent whispers,
with the ghost of the noose,
a predator sleep walking.
The silk is a shroud,
woven from the threads of a lie,
and the noose is a promise,
kept by a ghost of a sigh.
Insanity wears a truss of silk,
until the silk becomes a noose,
and the noose begins to swing,
like a pendulum do.
The tick of the clock is a hammer,
striking the anvil of a hollow mind,
and the rhythm is a dance,
where the dancers are shadows.
The pendulum swings,
between madness and the light,
and the silk is a bridge,
to the edge of the night.
