Desperate Times

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Descent into MadnessAnd look into the madness, As it burns its tempered black.Could I remember purityAnd dream I had it back.But when I write of it, The ink burns to the page, Blots out the virgin white, disguises disgust and rage,Tempers all this living, the art that keeps me sane.We burned in hell to turn this black,To sing this verse and want it backTo wonder at the pipers songThat called to us from nights fall.The innocence has gone to be,To sleep the page and not with me;But with the page the purest white,Until with ink, contempt I write;And cover in the darkest black, All thats been to Hell and back.