On the Precipice of Madness (Or Genius?)

"With mighty stride he took his steps, Confidently he soars – a hawk-like pride, His muse, he nonchalantly taps, Found him, his flow, he rides tides.

What is it in man that drives this span, The journey, his mind to expand, With that they ran and they spend, And they mend their stipend, to no end bend.

What is it in man that spears his heart, Into the great unknown he darts, the wild card, Though pained he keeps his smarts, his art, Though stained he plays his bard’s part.

And to what end does this voyage then? What treasures does it lend to those who plan? A revelation, or at least, a single cent? Or is it just the ravings of a mad man?

Man, can’t he then bend and rend, Through the monster’s den he pant and rant, Yet his hand he can’t let lend, A merry, broken band, a man in stray land.

Slices the magpie’s dice dies, A bodice Möbius nears, Is this orifice edifice, A precipice of madness, or genius?"