Reflections on Madness

If I could move in madness like
a dancer gliding fast across
a ballroom stage
I'd feather all my caps with it.

But madness is not danced.
By definition, it is cried,
chaotic horror falling out
as lifeblood from a victim's wound.

Only a faery is gracefully mad.
His ballroom out of time and space,
his downturned face
grinning as he beholds his trapped partner.

Madness is that faery too.
You're just his dance partner when mad,
stamping blood and bone
across the marble floor.