A wise form of madness grips blood and flesh
So that violent delight has violent end,
White swans turn to crows when looked at afresh,
When masks fall, hurt hearts in transcendence mend.
Lips do what hands do, sins are repeated,
Dragons keep fair caves with smoke fumes of sighs,
Fire-powder consume, loved, completed.
New kin is still foe when grudges arise.
From demise comes plague, darkness that mocks sleep,
Second-hand news seeps, drowns beauty too dear,
If seeds can’t be reaped, then darlings must weep,
Parting is such sorrow, now always near.
Fixed and cut in the stars this was foreseen
So forgiveness could come from hands unclean.
Thomas Dylan Bolger 