I roam like a withered cloud,
the white foam of cotton
against blue long gone.
Why isn’t there comfort in madness?
My mind builds a memorial for every demon
that has left its footprint on my chest.
There is no ink in dead flowers, yet I chase
their petals trying to find enough color
to fill a single thought.
Is sanity a stroke of luck or a creature
some can tame while others are cursed
with feral.
I wish unfinished would leave bread crumbs
so my brain could be tricked into believing
life had a map.
Insanity is a parking lot where I watch
everyone escape, but me.
Susie Clevenger 2024