Almost a revelation, almost…
The wise words of the wanderer
drifts about as a clinging ghost,
when the thrill of life is whatever.
But not for me, not for me —
the neon lights are lying,
not even the kiss of a corpse
from the memories of the dying.
We all live for but one reason —
for want of the to be encountered.
Yet what lies in this infection?
Are not the heavens so festered?
This is almost a crusade —
a duty of the corrupted artist,
in a tornado is this parade,
playing the mortal catalyst.
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To thyself be true my friend