The madness is beautiful.
It stands on the clifftop
and stares, silent, at the city below,
at the cars moving through streets
like bubbles in oil,
at the pinball table tenements,
at the lakes.
It would sooner lay eggs
through its eye sockets
than cut loose its freedom
and kick it away from the pier.
The wind drags its cloak
into something like a gas flare.
Madness howls.
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