I
Dark tendrils sprout forth,
from my hands,
which toil and labor,
at the seeming nothingness before them.
Dark thoughts birth madness,
from my brain,
seeking to devour more,
despite the lack of proper sustenance.
As madness begins to take root.

II
All is well, All is well,
'till my cerebral core begins to swell,
and perform the actions in which I shant speak.
All is swell, All is swell,
'till my ears ring from funeral bells,
and hear the cries in which are not mine.
All is well, and All is swell,
'till my soul slowly descends to hell.
Although,
My actions causing the ringing of church bells,
no longer seems so queer.

III
What remains is dry, battered, and hollowed out,
as the bones of an ancient corpse.
Though, in this case, things are quite new,
as this new demeanour changed me so.
The funeral bells are no longer demoralizing,
but merely a reminder of what constitutes my soul.
The 7 layers are quite a welcoming idea now that I am--
so thoroughly intertwined in it's innerworkings.
Now that I have commited all of it's acts,
Now that I have displaced my mindset,
Now that I have dined with Persephone in winter,
Now that I have swam in the Styx with the victims of my madness.
How easily have I made the descension,
from depression to deemed madness,
but how easily the bells cure sadness.
Unsure of the height I fell.
Although,
All is well, All is well.