It is madness when you know

that you have to stop but can’t

leaving little poems in your wake

scattering them

in the roadside ditch

when no one is looking


sending them off

tacked on to helium balloons

rising far above existing eyes

Falling leaves are not

trees nodding their approval

you know but still

you make them accomplices

in your wild schemes


and let your thoughts skip

where no path leads except the one

that you scratched out from the dust

There aren’t any foot steps following yours

yet a little madness persists

wanting to hide

yet wanting to be found


A game where hope is destined to lose

and the pain is half the fun

Imagining the shadow to be the sun

and the sand, a cover for the grass



But when the madness leaves

it is merely a lonely place

and you alone know

the curves you passed

and the irreversible creases

folded into your mind’s map.

©Reena Prasad 21 October 2012



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