His Belonging to Madness

The world is stranger than fiction.
I have come to think so as I live to explore.
I am sure someone somewhere in seclusion,
Has held the same thought before.

Reality gripes and fantasy distracts.
Not quite peculiar on the ears,
But if taken fresh off the rocks it contracts.
The edges of every story mimics the sounds of gears.

Life is given to those with plenty.
It is felt forced upon to some without a shelf.
The meaning is also taken away from many.
Yet it is always and simply clueless to itself.

God and all the Gods have never spoken,
A single word that I could of ever read well enough.
Not one phrase ever took ownership and made me broken.
However I did listen to them all as a bluff.

It drove me to madness' distance.
Not into it thankfully, but in front of the familiar entity.
It was death-like and mocked every last second of my existence.
I questioned it and it answered this visit of mine with brevity.

And that is how the clock mocks time so numbly.
It is why I have become who I am because of whom.
I floundered around today and tomorrow dumbly.
Ever since I found such truth that shines in the water's deepest gloom.

Mouldering now in a pile of my own remorse,
Pieces of my body are separating from my embodiment.
The sunbeam in the dark room is an audience to the course,
Of a sempiternal man who has become frozen by sentiment.

One who now only survives in their own imagination.
Lost in an universe of his own installment.
That is I, a person of interest in spontaneous fascination,
Perceiving nothing more than the present.