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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476922" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Loneliest, Most Protean Modes Of Madness</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The loneliest, most protean modes of madness <br>rage in my cells like nightmares in isolation<br>watching the fireflies dance through the bars <br>as a secret gesture from unknown, sympathetic stars<br>in a collusion of constellations to keep up with the times<br>and shuck off their old myths of origin<br>like the straight jackets of a fixed place, <br>debate whether the light-bending darkness is chaos or freedom<br>or the old heirarchies of seraphic emanations of insight<br>still trickle down like oracular snakes on burning ladders. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now if I wanted this to mean something <br>I'd look for a precedent for the shadows that dart like birds <br>across the tunnel vision of my line of sight <br>and I'd drink from the same fountain where the leaves <br>lap their water like books full of experience <br>and I'd borrow light years from other men's eyes <br>to verify my seeing may be new, but it's sound. <br>I don't have any use for knowledge <br>and that's why it trusts me and let's its hair down <br>as if there were nothing of any significance to impart <br>to the diamond-hearted translucency of an engaging madman<br>whose enlightenment sweats the details <br>in a fever of crazy wisdom that plays with his mind <br>like a child on the moon fascinated by the solitude of its intensity. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But you who can hear me in your blood without asking <br>will recognize me by the accent of light in my voice <br>and know that I don't walk in the footprints of grammars <br>that wore down this trail like a carpet that wouldn't fly away <br>until they got as far as they could vocally could<br>then turned home for good, as if that were the end of the tail <br>that began and ended like alpha in the mouth of omega.<br>But time sweeps eternity away like a waterclock in a deluge, <br>like chalk on a blackboard, a ferocity of jewels out of the eyes <br>of bitter ores that couldn't see anything shining in the dark<br>by their own light like a fish out of the reach of the sun, <br>that became a lantern unto itself, a revelation <br>on its own wavelength that illuminated the depths <br>of a darkness deeper than light years are far<br>and there's no way to divine a sign in the immaculate darkness <br>for a teacher or a star. Here where the ladders don't reach <br>and there are no reflections of a higher clarity<br>all senses are intensified into one medium of perception <br>that doesn't individuate the morphology of knowledge forms<br>your mind holds up like a black mirror to a chaos <br>of hidden harmonies that depend inexhaustibly upon you<br>to add your voice to a new species of seeing, <br>like a mutant gene that's never been heard from before.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even in a cage, my humanity is what's measureless <br>about all things if you enter them deep enough to understand<br>you can't drown in the mirage of your own emptiness <br>or badger the stars to break their vow of silence <br>without giving yourself away like a secret <br>everybody's been keeping to themselves like tears <br>under their breath, in the wells of their heart, <br>in the dessicated watersheds of their art <br>with nowhere to fall but up into the nights within them.<br>The unattainable aspirations of a madman grasping at fireflies <br>like the cornerstones of a new palace of stars <br>that dance like chandeliers in the rain <br>to the timing of their musical visions in the night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Among the journeymen who labour for lasting results<br>I do with great discipline exactly nothing, <br>masterfully done. And the picture-music is undeniably <br>perishable. I burn colours in the sun on a pyre of hawkweed <br>like the works of a dead chameleon evaporating <br>like a rainbow body that isn't making promises to anyone<br>you'll ever hear from it again, though mantras <br>echo through the mountains like the shrieking palettes <br>of wild birds revoking the ease of the nocturnal silence<br>with more vivid mixes of the hues in the eyes of crazy wisdom.<br>I make great leaps of disbelief into the abyss<br>off the ledge of a lover's precipice into the emptiness <br>and my heels flower into wings and it feels <br>as if I'm departing at last like a hermit down a mountain<br>with a contemporary vision of my own empty immensity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476922" data-title="The Loneliest, Most Protean Modes Of Madness de Patrick White" data-description="The loneliest, most protean modes of madness 
rage in my cells like nightmares in isolation
watching the fireflies dance through the bars 
as a secret gesture from unknown, sympathetic stars
in a collusion of constellations to keep up with the tim..."></div>
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