When the mind cannot grasp proprieties,
When answers are beyond reach,
Conscience ordains it dwell in depravity,
In a closed space housing a fragile body.
Weak in spirit, and of frustration,
Throwing rocks at unseen hangmen.
While fleeing the rope;
It climbs on a boat,
With its fiddling cargo,
And stays afloat.
Its consciousness shakes,
Its senses struggle,
And it’s thoughts labour while appeasing Poseidon.
Yet nothing becomes no thing, nothing changes from null
Like repackaging blank faith, in virgin’s foil.
Repetition becomes a failure of causes,
Like earthquakes result in violent lurches.
Lifeless bystanders are unwilling victims,
Of the tempest that kills paying stowaways.
No is he; the last man who ran from memories.
Yes I am; the last man who ran to possibility.
To chase a haven; with an order of holy transgression.
While pausing to sway,
While pausing to gloat,
At the herd and the waves
Who notice and moan.
In a nauseating mist of vanity.
And when the fog disperses
The self; wills calm.
Yet only for while;
Now the wind sleeps a while.