While standing alone in a field somewhere,
as silence fills the air,

silently guessing the words I'll say,
until my thoughts decay:

These flowers have powers to heal and bless;
there's monsters in this flesh.

How long must I find myself all alone,
turning my thoughts to stone?

Yet still I must question all that's been said;
nothing's outside my head.

So, I'll stand alone in a field somewhere,
forgetting how to care.

The path, it is crooked;
and all that I look at
is bent and skewed on review.

The path, it is broken;
and all that is spoken
are lies based on truths I once knew.

The path, it is vacant;
and all that is sacred
wouldn't do to move the fool.

The thin veil before
the form of forms falls away
is nothing, if not a negative thought,
lesser than even the grave.

Could investigation of this situation,
yield anything not known?

Or would observation of this reservation
reveal the specters dancing below?

The sharpest intellect
cannot pierce the screen;
the fabric remains
but a hair's breadth away.

To pursue
brings endless folly;
to remain
brings more of the same.

You've been atop
the highest pole.
You've stood tip-toed,
and stretched.

But can you return
to the modern world
and still maintain
your breath?

Fraudulent faces,
with decadent cases,
know not which path to choose.

Clever replies,
and the feelings they hide,
only work to conceal truths.

The window is open,
for the door, it is broken,
and our secrets all run loose.

The sky, it is burning,
And the world, it keeps turning,
as neither side calls the truce.

Keeping in time,
with mirrors and confines
confuses the rinds for juice.

Bring on the end; I'll laugh to the grave!
This system and words are utterly insane.

Why must I claw and clamor for bread?
With how it's going, we're better off dead.

There's nothing to do, but sit here and laugh
as people debate what's gold and what's chaff.

Desires clung to and procured -- pahtooey! --
it smells like manure in the gardens of fool'ry.

It's the same; **** the rich, and the poor!
With rice in my dish, I need nothing more.

Beyond the insect hives,
with crystal hearts in hexagonal designs.
Beyond the jeweled terraces
of fractured, shifting carapaces.

Inside the mind of time's design --
this fragmented mosaic of mine.
Inside the bedroom of she
whose sole desire's the end of me.

There is but a breeze bearing a curse;
the beginning of my thoughts, undone:
"The truth behind the universe?
One does not equal one."