Immaculate Madness; My Red Rose

Beautiful madness; my red rose. Fields of people; tied up white roses: They stay lovely for such & such a time, and their love- never all mine. Observe their loveliness as it fades: not sublime. because you come and you go; your fragrance and your halo. This sweet madness I cling to, gone like a mist- of dreams, and real too. Turning every imperfection to the serpent's conquest: of Moses' stride and silhouette dreams; Moses' speech, time-less hours.
beautiful madness, do I seek the world, or does this world seek me? Having no ties to this world, I see how true ugly can be, I see you as beauty for free. too sane, this world that exists; this field of white.  Does it just hold fast to a moment, a time? I did, I did get my forever today; little worth these days, it's all about the bay. maybe it's all they need: lavish moments in seed, without ever a tree. sweet madness, my internal world has begun to promise me eternity..past eternity...Tales of walking silhouette dreams and an architect of my subconscious and things. Oh, these memories of dreams & dreams of memories designed by the the awoken imprints in me. Of fear too, poured into my world: A simple casket of white roses. I told you when you go, their halos are no more. All this, I tell you in secret, magnificent madness. The architect had forever with me, yesterday, but I did pray. All of the angels searched for you, for me. Seeking the rose, they held your scent and saw silhouettes of you, but never you.... A painter could never have red in such a hue. Another night in the hands of my gripping subconscious: immersed in tales of dreams and fears and memories. I shall, this time, break into the boundaries of sanity... I shall this time, break into the boundaries of time at its most vulnerable hour. The world shall know my name and think me Moses. I promise them madness and I promise them now. Another night designed by this architect of loaded things: my subconscious, whose clock never works and knows not when to stop. I will rise and awaken those who sleep forever. A resurrection of every dead; let dreams exist no more. Let the subconscious burst into fields of white roses: where there were walking silhouette dreams, let there be those who slept forever. Beautiful madness, they shall-each one-know your name. They shall-each one- know our pain. How we had roared out of many swinging eternity's. Once, how we cried to be freed from the hours of this world, and its imprints and silhouettes and things. Immaculate madness, within the imprints of the conscious, the ties of the subconscious, during time's stand still, you heard a whisper: of the angels and the living-those resurrected, and those insisting on breathing. Each whisper, calling out to "red rose". this madness is a thing called love now, you know? My red rose, my love with you is unlike tendering fields for February, just to have them die in march. My love for you is like the painter's search for your hue. His heart searches for you openly, but sees you in secret, quite regularly. One rose for the world: perhaps, Moses told this one a secret, to make it bloom as it does. My sweet madness.