Is it just madness?

Words arranged from chloroplast and happenstance.

Serendipity adheres to my ruthless clockwork;
cog-empowered vestibule
the earth-hewn terrestrial
knee jerk reaction
to rampant formalism.

Stream-of-consciousness testifies as my witness.
James Joyce in a psychiatric,
mentally proactive,
prison.

Words words words
are gateways to lucidity
but I threw away the only key
with my mental stability
and desperate decay.

I am the cigarette seppuku
of every day
that meant nothing and everything
all at once.