Chaos Within The Heart

What are we? 
Rather, why are we?
Madness and genius are not conditions of the mind
But rather substances produced in the marrow and circulated throughout the body.
And the body is nothing but a prison to the soul if it is without mind.
Curious, it seems, the deterioration and blossoming of the intellect appears so very similar to onlookers.
Bystanders in an acrobatic collision.
Tears shed, caught, and passed along hand-to-hand like pearls.
Strung up to be worn as an ornament about the throat.
Pain turned to beauty. Like a butterfly pinned to a cork board.
Here. I saw you were beautiful, so I killed these flowers in your name. 
Beauty for beauty. An acceptable sacrifice.
Time bends and loops contorting to facilitate our insignificant existence.
Not a theme park attraction, but waves breaking on the sand.
Granules stirred in submersion results in a salty snow globe.
This is the chaos within the heart. Sediment pulled, pushed, tossed, and thrown.
Swirled about. Memories. Photographs. Images summoned by recollection.
Flashes indicative of a mood or sentiment. Portions of that which was set to music.
This life will play upon the screen of eternity though all and none will see.
A screen strung up by the giver of life. Of souls. Of the heart.
Mine is torn, and thus I await my seamstress.
What have I to repay you with? 
Here. Flowers. 
Beauty for Beauty.