The Madwoman

Written April 2, 1997

The madwoman is just past the gate.
She smiles, sometimes laughs, always beckons.
But, when I get there, she is past -- past the gate, to
the next gate in time.
She's not elusive -- just.
She is a dream of late night, of torpor, of drunkenness,
of loneliness, less than aloneness.

The madwoman deceives, lies, cheats, neglects, rejects, deserts,
and in that is so alluring.
The madwoman seduces, with panache, and silken satiny beckoning into the abyss.
Once there, I know too I am mad, but she hides my madness from me until she has
pulled me beyond view of the exits.
Yet, as I turn, she is gone.
Past the gate.

And she smiles, laughs, and always beckons
towards that gate that comes before the thousandfold gates
ahead in her path.
And I will approach them all, oblivious to the knowledge
that this is my never-ending quest
for sanity and love
with the madwoman.