The
darkness cannot find you, not in the wind
It
was just something, a thing I needed to believe
Once,
but it was more frequent than a single tome
Daily,
destitute journeys in search of a quite peace
And
as I recollect, I tremble now, much removed
For
serenity has no hold in the cacophony of pain
Imagine,
as best as I can define, a chronic distortion
Of
time, the senses--In every breath that you exhale
A
man learns quickly that respiration, while vital
It
can never constitute being alive, no not exactly
Existence,
is easily the worst state of human capacity
Longingly
waiting for the bus ride to reach its end
Certain
respite, from an ailment inconceivably miffed
Storms
I know—and all a man ever harnessed before
Grace,
a word which found me hiding inside the void
Too
frightened to capitulate, Far more weary to run
There
is no answer, for lying awake on a frosty couch
Rancor,
it clung about my spirit, and darkness danced
All
at once what saved me, had always been my fall
Run
child, into open fields, the wind is promised you
Only
if you hurry, for faith not waits on contemplation
Calculation
demerits a saving hand, and freedom withers
Be
sure though, no man escapes a lifetime on will alone
One
step, and one day, then another, and still some more
Choosing
actively to erase a passive past, without sight
But
for the hand of a face I have never seen, I remain
Lost,
out in the outlands—dead before a vile, raging Sea
Instead,
four summers now, I have chased a calling voice
My
truth, light and way are all encompassed—in one place
