I met a traveler in the night
neath a moon of ashen hue…
he pointed toward a distant throne
and bade me look thereto.
There sat a king with vacant eyes,
adorned in jewels of great renown,
and all the multitude rejoiced
when Madness wore a crown.
As I wandered through that night
neath that pale and dying moon,
I saw a multitude approach
and heard a dreadful tune.
No drum was struck, no bugle called,
no banner filled the air,
yet all the earth seemed moving toward
a darkness everywhere.
The foremost rider bore a crown
of mirrors black and cold,
his face was hidden from himself,
and Progress was he called.
His steed was fed on shattered dreams,
on forests felled and burned,
on all the sacred things of old
for which no soul returned.
And after him came Comfort robed
in garments soft and fair,
she carried cups of sweetened sleep
and sold them everywhere.
Who drank forgot their inward voice,
their sorrows and their shame,
they woke with vacant eyes and lips,
yet thanked her all the same.
Then came Distraction clothed in light,
with ten thousand dancing eyes,
its fingers spun bright webs of thought
to capture passing flies.
And all who entered there became
as shadows on a wall,
recalling neither whence they came
nor if they lived at all.
Then came Compliance, pale and thin,
with ribbons in her hair…
she smiled while fastening silken cords
around the voice of care.
No chains were seen upon the flesh,
no prison could be found,
yet every soul bowed lower still
as if by duty bound.
And next rode Despair silently
upon a horse of bone…
no herald spoke its dreadful name,
yet all men called it home.
Its eyes were caverns deep with years,
its breath the scent of graves,
it whispered not of tyranny,
but taught the love of chains.
And following came a sight so strange
I could scarcely bear to see…:
a trillion hearts in crystal jars
marched willingly and free.
Their owners walked beside them all,
polite and well-attired,
each smiling as they slowly placed
their souls upon the pyre.
Then Truth appeared…
her robes were torn,
her feet were bruised and bare.
no temple opened unto her,
no priest received her there.
The crowd recoiled from her as one
and turned their faces wide,
for Truth recalled forgotten wounds
that comfort couldn’t hide.
Then Beauty came with wildflower hair
and starlight in her eyes,
but few could look upon her face,
so dazzled were they by lies.
And Wonder wandered after them,
an orphan in the dust,
seeking among the broken stones
a thing called holy trust.
Then from the darkness rose a throne
carved out of human fear,
and Madness sat upon the seat
as all the world drew near.
No horns announced its sovereignty,
no armies marked its claim;
it merely taught the multitudes
to bear its very name.
And all who felt the wound of wrong,
who sensed the poison spread,
were taught to doubt their very souls
and trust the throne instead.
Then Madness spoke:
“Behold my reign,
no rack, no sword, no flame,
for those who see are few indeed,
and those who see bear blame.
I need no chains of iron wrought,
no dungeon damp and deep.
I merely teach the waking soul
to doubt the truth it keeps.
The prison that I’ve fashioned here
needs no lock nor key…
the captives guard its every gate
and call themselves the free.”
I woke before the break of day
and thought the vision done,
yet still I saw that distant throne
beneath the rising sun.
Madness had not left the seat,
nor laid the crown aside…
it merely learned a thousand names
beneath which it could hide.
And everywhere the people knelt
believing they were free,
while building with their very hands
the walls they couldn’t see.
And from afar I heard once more
that dreadful marching tune,
I knew the pageant had not passed,
nor vanished with the moon.
Progress rode before it still,
and Comfort walked behind,
while Truth and Wonder wandered on,
abandoned by mankind.
Yet as I watched them fade from sight
beyond the mirror’s gleam,
I felt within my wounded breast
the stirring of a dream.
Not all the crowns that Madness wears,
nor all the masks it weaves,
can still the ache that lingers on
in those whom truth bereaves.
For though the sacred be replaced
by shadows dressed as light,
the soul remembers what was lost
and mourns it in the night.
And while I grieve, I know this much…
I have not joined the throng.
The wound that will not let me sleep
reminds me what is wrong.
So let the pageant wander on,
let falsehood have its hour…
I’ll hold the ache, for it alone
has not knelt to its power.
© 2026 Camille Rose Castillo
