She cackles softly to herself,
then stops, startled, and giggles.
She’s mad, you know.
Marvelously mad.
She practices the art of creation,
threads words through needled eyes.
Marvelous mad eyes,
you know.
Creation practices its art on her,
entangles her with thought-blasted mind,
she’s mad, you know.
Marvelously mad.
Scraping through drains she welcomes all pains,
swallows the lives she finds hiding inside,
marvelously mad.
She soars on abstractions
while pleading with shadows,
runs into black holes
and capers in rainbows,
she’s mad, you know.
Marvelously mad.

Erin Moen
4/27/04
© Copyright