impulses within

In the hush of twilight's dim,
Whispers rise, the day grows grim,
Men in their folly, dance with sin,
Chasing shadows, they can't win.

Madness lurks where thoughts begin,
In the silence, 'neath the skin,
A tempest brews, a storm within,
Where reason ends, the madmen spin.

They build their towers, tall and thin,
Defying nature, kith, and kin,
With prideful hearts, so paper-thin,
They fall to vices, deep akin.

In the mirror, gaunt and grim,
Stares the madness, stark and prim,
A reflection of the soul's chagrin,
The echo of a hollow din.

Yet in this chaos, hope is slim,
For men to find the light within,
To break the cycle, to shed the skin,
Of madness that has always been.
© Madman