There is a light that follows me,
an unseen eye that watches.
Darkness floods my chest,
yet the glow gives me relief.

Pages.
Pages and more pages.
Paper as shelter,
words as comfort.

Life:
desire, danger,
hope…
and disappointment.

An echo in my mind
keeps me from knowing who I am—
or who I might become.
That perfect version of me
lives only in thought,
in dream.

And in the same dream
a voice whispers:
—Your greatness is delusion.

Madness: hope.
The compliments reach me,
but are embraced only
by the version of me
that exists in illusion.
Meanwhile,
the voice tears them apart,
denies me,
undoes me.

Madness: darkness.
And still,
I stand.
Even if trembling.
Even if in pain.

Is madness…
Perhaps the final shape of hope?
Or only the muffled echo
of the darkness left behind?