Overthrown...without sense. Thru to midnight and it's portense.
The texture of it how it waxes and at once wanes, the tumult in it's cause is it's lasting bane. How infuriatingly simple and yet vastly complex, How slow it spins and turns without the incessant hand. Sanity forsakes it's embrace, it seeks adultery with irrationality, it flees from reason and seeks the improbable intercourse with the damned, the crazed, and the forlorn heart.
Thaddeus Shane Whittington
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tumult/
