Purpose in my work is put to rout And cast aside before I scarce begin. I wonder now what was my grievous sin That caused this torture here to come about. Incessant dripping leaves my heart in doubt As waterfalls of noise come thundering in That I am sane as
The universe is full of matter. Black And formless and without substantial being. Years exist between the stuff of stars And time and consciousness have little meaning. Warmth and light exists each million years As light, compelled to travel, pierces space With nothing in between but unknown stuff And here
If I must do much more than I expect, And live a life I long for but still doubt, Then how must I resist the disrespect And all the short dismissals handed out To those who look much less than what they are? How can I power through the angry
Grace abounds as oceans roar Around my head, past wooden doors. They're all unlocked, the grace is free, Yet I live like it's unknown to me. Had circumstances left me blind And had the world been less unkind I might have known. But what's
The love of wisdom is no love per se. It acts like dusty, passionless old tomes And gives no warmth of moonlit nights to they Who bade fair wisdom call their hearts her home. For rather, philosophe, you dwell on ink And put to death vitality and comb The nits