The Confessions of a Madman

The Confessions of a Madman

And these are my confessions in this intriguing monologue.

I gaze on through this photo album with haunting memories all along. The faces blur as pages pass reminding things so long since past. Of roaring fires and dancing forms, of wintry days and summer storms, the madness creeps into my eyes like a seeping, sleepy fog.

And these are my confessions in this intriguing monologue.

The painting there it weeps with blood, upon the floor there lays its flood. A face, but who’s? this know not I, for in looking at it I come to die. Such pompous stance and shiny glass, with hair and skin and eyes of brass, yet, still the darkness come at last. Before my eyes the darkness seeps, beckoning the peaceful sleep. I feel now the grip the fog, like icy talons of Magog.

And these are my confessions in this intriguing monologue
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Upon my feet a tortoise crawls, lumbering the dreary drawls. It’s once great shine now dull and dross like Christ himself upon the cross. The air draws smoky with fog; the whispers come as well, along. The children playing in my mind, and then there screaming comes in kind. The fires of madness rage and lash, for coming now the devils’ gash. And still I feel the numbing fog, a drum on my head, a swamps dead log.

And these are my confessions in this intriguing monologue.

The madness now within my soul, as the demons beat wings, and their drums roll. Upon this blasted camp ground I sit, lashed and tied around this spit. Turning, turning of the fire, the feast of me is on the pyre. No funeral now, a mad mans lament, no trail to travel or pitch a tent. My soul consumed by death grey fog. Still these are my confessions in this intriguing monologue.