Grief stricken; questioned beliefs; timid, never redeemed,
he brought about change in the strangest of ways.
Is this correctly perceived?
This voyage to the depths of the sea --
Reflections of discontent, phases of jaded decay;
visions consistent with his patient display of wisdom when expecting reprieve.
But he'd do everything he could to escape the disgrace.
Every corner harbored pain; a matrix of hate.
Every avenue he traveled through he'd haggle truth to capture proof
but evidence was at the most practical,
and at the least scattered through the annals of the past.
So he rummaged through the Scriptures,
discovered the mystical. He wondered who would listen.
Such punishment: cyclical...
Rarely does existential analysis amount to more than
preferential paralysis. The power source
of curiosity is pure ferocity. The Now purports
to learn viscosity. Of course the proud resorts to
a coward's forced dishonesty.
I guess the mental is clouded with a soured wit.
The Leviathan of the State that reaches out and devours Ships.
Rhyme is just a sublime canvas where Time dances.
And upon this locale exists a Mind frantic with doubts of myth.
Our Town is sick -- a small presence surrounded with Gigantic widths,
roaming about with lists to purchase despite financial shifts.
I drift along a beaten conception of a beaten path;
I used to seek Utopian peace with little hope to be Free at last;
now I'm lost in a Sea of knowledge,
broken and freezing, choking and wheezing,
only just breathing enough to still exhaustively reach with promise.
Crossing the stream of Godlessness with ontic-absence.
Written to please the writer's mind despite its flawed contraptions.
I've fought this madness for years...
but if there's any doubt about the strength required,
the scholar hasn't the fear
nor the awkward passiveness,
nor the rage desired by those awful savages:
The sphere to exist within must engage the praxis;
to learn the zen of floating upon the sea of the patient pragmatist...
I face the abacus counting the angular danger,
the hill downward just becomes stranger and stranger.
To pay for the pace were heading to maybe drown,
we fight like shipwrecked monarchs still intending to save the crown.
a different path to follow starting with disastrous profit charging.
Time is largely to blame for this dreaded scene.
Bailout or bailout, each for the sake of necessity...
a life worth losing? There's more to make with this recipe.
Ubiquity. Conditioned for witnessing change in the Mental-Stream.
Let us approach calmly the shore of the lost.
It's hard to choose a path when the fork in it's gone.
Floating in defense of the soul's rebellion like Constantine.
It's either an Homeric Odyssey, or a single vessel lost at sea.