Richard was not, at first, mad,
his mind then was not yet lost,
in matters applied to intellect,
his philosophies still had cost;
but with growing knowledge
he was slowly fading away,
he became unraveled within,
until his life would then decay;
his mind, broken of holding,
now unalterable maelstrom,
from which, left unattended,
fell to its shattered wisdom;
only shards of his thoughts
were able to market, unkind,
yet he could hold no remorse
for such loss of broken mind;
as I stood by, barely with him,
watching helpless as he faded,
I cried, that he was lost to me,
tears for his world, now jaded;
and it had then become clear –
ironically, the one clarity known –
that he was no longer human,
more so now a mindless stone.
Petrichor 