| Frail flesh is heir
|
| To a sea of troubles
|
| And the human condition
|
| Impaled upon the horns of choice:
|
| To linger, twilit
|
| In fringes of oblivion
|
| Or to bury hardened heels
|
| Stubborn, in fallow dirt?
|
| There is nobility
|
| In the vacance of the vessel
|
| The dirt smeared beast
|
| Spine bent under burden
|
| Struggles through the muck
|
| And is reborn in the mud
|
| To struggle, beaten
|
| Bloody but unbowed
|
| Or to buckle at the knees
|
| And draw mud into lun
|
| Now the second:
|
| The obliterate’s nature
|
| And invertebrate mutt
|
| Or self-contained god?
|
| The quietus of cowards
|
| Or a divine transcendence?
|
| There is nobility
|
| In the vacance of the vessel
|
| The flesh is heir
|
| To a pale cast of thought
|
| To a bare breast to whips
|
| Or by ignoring, end them?
|
| All that matters is struggle
|
| The third question;
|
| The nature of the realist
|
| A worm feeding on mud
|
| Or human in excelsis?
|
| The ceaseless trials of Sisyphus
|
| Or a noble struggle?
|
| Every absurd query
|
| Deluged, deeper in shit
|
| The slate-eyed god:
|
| An addict of transcendence
|
| Grins madly in the grip
|
| Of a selfish junky zen
|
| Unhinged mind unmoored
|
| And heels in tug’s tide
|
| Empty, vacant, useless
|
| Listless, in opiate voids
|
| The nature of man
|
| Is thought before the answer
|
| A struggle
|
| The nature of man
|
| Is constant internal battle
|
| All that matters is struggle
|
| The flesh is heir
|
| To a pale cast of thought
|
| The mind rotten with
|
| Whips and scorns of doubt
|
| An internal struggle
|
| From which humanity stems:
|
| To bare breast to whips
|
| Or by ignoring, end them?
|
| All that matters is struggle |