Madness

Madness,
Or is it?
The sight of a sound,
Tasting color just a bit.

Your soul smells of cinnamon,
Or is it cyanide?
A warm death,
Burning from the inside.

The truth,
Where it lies,
One can never tell.
Still it survives.

How to fix this.
Is it broken?
Or just lost?
Never spoken.

No medication,
For this affliction.
Your words,
They're my addiction.

I need this fixation,
This apparatus,
I need your ire,
To fuel this madness.