Frenzy is Defunct

The frenzy is defunct—

its crimson banners folded,

its trumpets speechless

in the corridors of dusk.

Once, it came crowned with thunder:

a magnificent trespasser,

scattering reason like graying birds

through the chambers of the mind.

Now—

nothing.

Only the faint indentation

where tumult once knelt.

The mirrors have resumed

their old allegiance to stillness.

The chandeliers no longer tremble

when a thought crosses the room.

Even the clock—

that austere old monarch—

has ceased to hasten.

What remains

of that magnificent disorder?

A few extinguished sparks

beneath the ash of flying fogs;

a torn glove

upon the ballroom floor;

a door left ajar

to a country

no one visits.

And yet—

at certain hours,

when the blood remembers

what the intellect has renounced,

a restless wind passes

through the abandoned chambers.

For a moment,

the old splendour stirs.

Then reason

draws the curtain.

The frenzy bows—

and vanishes

beneath the floorboards,

leaving the house immaculate,

the throne unoccupied,

and, in the deepest room,

one red bell

still rings without a hand