The struggle of man knows no limits or bounds, ending only when we are transformed . . . |
i struggle and struggle alone and as i do i take time to scent that which pleases my senses breathe in that which give lung and lungs a favorable report court with the fair and foul in all its pleasantry and toxicity realize that life within life that cycle which proceeds unheeded to its deepest destination a place where time is but a wave in passing casting confetti in joy and another wave goodbye a cry deep in its soul. I struggle alone but not as others alone those filled with others alone thinking themselves not but so slow oh so slow to come around to the sound of tears rushing to the sound of the broken, beating heart torn apart by memories lies and stories of fiction contradiction and more lies more tears more cries and the memories the thoughts of the distant WAS and destiny denied sighed and lowered head future born and future dead. I struggle suffer, too true that of my mystery design an unpredicted masterpiece an unkept crease in the pant of righteousness a miscalculation at best mathematics skewed clued not to my awareness a slip of silent rage of disarray the chaos cannot comprehend sending messages, postage unpaid laid stacked packed forgotten rotten --- the stench unkind to the senses oh the corrupted senses rebelling against the clean and clear unsure of what to consider consider dear to the heart. I struggle my muscles strain my brain fries in the oil of creation's toil a fruit to sweet to bear stairing into the dusty corners waiting for the train to never arrive The scent of the smoke music to my deafening ear and brakeless soul. |