The Seductive Face of Madness

A beautiful woman came to me
And seduced me one autumn night.
She had long copper hair,
Warm olive skin,
And black sparkling eyes
That flickered in the candlelight.

She made me disrobe
And lie down on her large feather bed.
In nudity she joined me and lay at my side.
She traced my chest with a soft, gentle finger.
With moist velvet lips she kissed me;
A blue bolt of lightning went straight to my head.

Her lips instantly turned to dry leather,
And my eyes flashed with horror.
My temptress transformed
Into a grotesque old man
With a rotten, black-toothed grin
And bony, gnarled fingers.

His frozen breath reeked
With the stench of fetid afterbirth.
Raw crimson lines and deep purple furrows
Crossed the taut, pale white skin of his cracking face.
His bloodshot eyes were sunk deep in tired, bruised, greenish bags.
This terrifying man looked as old as the Earth.

His fingers had no prints;
His palms had no creases.
I pushed the cold, stony hand away,
Jumped from the serpent-covered bed,
And watched as the hideous, cackling,
Black-cloaked old man fell to dusty pieces.

The candles turned into torches
And the room into a dungeon
With wet, slimy walls,
A hard, rough floor,
And dank, stifling air.
My scared mind was troubled by this ghastly vision.

I awoke with a start at 3 AM,
Screaming, sweating, cold, alone,
An emptiness gripping my heart,
And suddenly very, very frightened of the dark.
Fear trembled my limbs.
Fear chilled my bones.

I reached out desperately,
Like a fevered child,
Searching for a warm body to cling to
But found only frigid, dark, bitter air
And demons dancing in the corners of the room.
This room, this dungeon, my mind defiled.

These are the tormented echoes of my sanity,
My misery, my destiny, my cries,
Cries that leave me breathless in the night,
Cries that leave me paralyzed and wondering if I'm dying.
I've been crucified in my sleep,
So why can't I just lie down and die?

---

Originally written:    June 22, 2002
Put online:    June 23, 2002
Discussion:    Seduced by madness. This is a poem that deals with isolation, the madness of my creativity, and the dreams/nightmares of my life. This madness looks appealing at first (it is a veritable fount of creativity). It's really not, however, as it means many miserable sleepless nights, horrifying dreams, nightmarish reality, voices in my head, and so on. I believe this is part of the reason why so many artists/creative persons kill themselves and are so tormented (that and the endless and futile quest to reproduce exactly what is in their heads--an impossible task or feat). (Not to mention the world in general is not set up for creative people, but I digress.) The final lines make reference to the feeling that I sometimes have when I wake up in the morning but don't necessarily want to awaken. It's kind of an, "Oh, crap, I woke up again" sort of feeling. ...And then there's the dream I had where my mother crucified me (and I actually like my mom). That was fun.


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