My mind is erratic,
changing easily with age,
the changes seem subtle,
but that's not quite the case.

I once felt such anger,
such pointless,
wandering,
misguided hate,
but now that feels distant,
I am far from the same.

The world seems a silly place,
so many of my grievances seem tiring,
I suppose it's not worth it,
wasting my days,
the fight is important,
but who knows who I am when I change?

Resignation feels the empty space in my brain,
tiredly painted with white and grey,
blood coursing through it delaying ruin,
but I can feel it coming,
and somehow that quiets my rage.

I can do a little,
and that's what I'll do,
make misfits feel normal,
if just today,
I knew how they felt and can use that,
that vague sensation of pain and decay,
maybe I'll make something better,
work towards making their lenses less opaque,
though I can't do much,
I'll do it right now,
I'll start today.

Man rose from the fertile crescent,
forging tools from the earth,
lumber, ore and bone,
and from the ashes rose great walls of stone.
The prisca theologica,
in the hands of the hermit,
a mirror shattered,
shards embedded in the hearts of men,
an open wound with no remedy,
wild animals now wearing clothes,
a guise hiding a loss of innocence.
Man as god,
and god as man,
built edifices to his own greatness,
great pillars to heaven,
massive gates only to admit the few,
whose hearts fester in caustic dogma.
The first rule from a throne,
the last wither nameless and unknown,
fearful of sin borne of station,
handed from father to son,
automatons and lifeless husks,
thirsty for the fountain of life,
stumbling towards the unknown god.

Coins lain on altar,
to a god with no name,
hedging a bet against probability,
the author of the triangle permits,
meat given to idols and then to gluttony,
within great white pillars of earth,
monolithic structures of stone,
in hopes of pax deorum.

Superstition,
nothing more,
The nameless god doesn't dwell in temples made by hand,
his throne founded in heaven,
he dwells in hearts wounded in antiquity,
in the worn hands of the laborer,
in the mind of the naturalist,
in the heart of the mother.

There is more of deity in the eyes of a child,
than in any temple,
and still we build,
heads bowed in reverence to inanimate atomic structure.

Truth is as solid as stone,
melting quickly with the application of heat,
falling into whatever mold is left in place,
trickling from container to container,
searching for an empty vessel,
draping over negative space,
and so I drown in well meaning ambition,
or perhaps pervasive confusion,
the vague insinuations of men who claim understanding,
yet do not give freely their true philosophy,
for you must be careful when fighting against monsters,
for fear of becoming abominable as well,
for if you stare into the abyss long enough,
they say it stares into you,
and so I find myself chasing shadows.

Soon calcification sets in,
and I am left staring at a product of liquefaction,
through the process of petrification,
no words escape my lips,
and truth falls on deaf ears,
a lone statue in a forest of fictitious geometry.

The fear is swallowed by the search,
and in finding nothing there is peace,
for the quiet breeds tranquility,
rest is found in solidarity,
in loneliness there is solace,
for if God reveals himself in nature,
his absence is revealed in human behavior.

This poem is an admission of guilt.

I often feel the urge to reassure myself,
invariably,
that I am right,
and in doing so I cut short other's thoughts,
and that is thoughtless of me, despite meditation.

What does it mean to be right?

Does being right translate to superiority,
or perhaps inferiority,
in terms of creativity is there a truth,
the variety that cuts to the bone?

And what is truth?

I think the answer is two roads split,
diverging in increasingly dangerous directions,
for faith is the belief in the reality of absolutes,
and rationality is the flexibility to choose for yourself,
and you can only choose one,
for that is how it has always been.

Why is man so singular and yet so one dimensional?

I find in my own experience that I am wrong,
in all instances,
there are always things that I do not consider,
facets wasted on my youth,
and in hoping for credibility,
I find that silence is the best substitute for intelligence,
and that the belief in the absence of illusions,
is itself an illusion,
for I am at my core,
ignorant,
unwise,
tired,
uncouth,
and very angry.

A cynical representation of a brighter future,
my mind,
racked with dreams of change,
centered on an unchanging stream of fate,
instability found in heart and in mind,
a sickness not easily cured,
without the aid of modern medicine hindrance,
the numbness of spoon fed complacency,
my anger is misused and misplaced,
for I cannot separate people from ideas,
and actions from context,
and with a confused lack of self medication,
I find growth in my synapse,
warmth in my extremities,
and searing anger in my bones.

There is a song as old as time,
as fragmented as the sands of the sea,
expanding even unto the atomic structure,
breaching the event horizon that is existence.

In this song there is an underlying melody,
strewn with beats of adaptability and visceral beauty,
a haunting requiem,
strung sweetly against the firmament,
shrieking alone in unfathomable darkness,
a howl into the void.
or a stone skipping across membranes,
resonating frequencies playing in tandem,
and yet it is the same,
perhaps another rendition,
but the core remains,
the harmonic convergence,
that simple phrase that all men know,
that resistance against that which is futile,
and against forces unseen and immeasurable in scope,
a piece that illustrates the variability of divinity,
the conception of infinity,
the ethereal nature of human strength,
ringing true in the hearts of many,
and scars left smoldering in the hearts of artists,
a dirge to those of like mind,
a symphony of questions,
to which there are few answers,
throughout the expanse of time and space,
splattered with blood and dark matter,
songs will be sung,
books will be written,
and agents will align,
forever playing along in a round as eternal,
and as elusive as the questions,
yet to be posed.

Oddly enough,
I find myself in a strange predicament,
my appearance does not seem to reflect my age,
but sadly my habits and limitations do.

I am old in spirit,
grown weary in a modern age,
tired of doing the things that I must,
the things that are expected of me,
and even the things I dislike,
and this,
I fear,
will not serve me.

I am yet impatient and impassioned,
a rebellious heart and a withering mind,
two things that fit quite nicely,
but to no great effect,
and so I dream while awake,
and live while sleeping.

I am passionately obsessed with the mundane,
simple little things,
and often fail to separate moments in time,
and when my mind wanders,
I dream while standing,
and the world goes dim,
a dis-associative calm spreads,
stilling my nails bitten to the quick,
hushing my breath,
and the nervous chatter surrounding,
as if to say,
what a novel world that is.