Honeycomb are to the bees,
as madness is to mysteries;
and are polite priorities
nectar of insecurities?

The recounted sheep are bleating/(bleeding),
cry of wolf to deaf misleading;
as i bray again repeating,
every note so self-defeating.

Thrown about the limbs of trees,
chaos with-in-discrepancies;
that which we melt just to freeze
wring tangles such as these.

My journey is while they sleep;
a shepherdess lost counted sheep;
the edge, again, too fall or leap
for flight first failure grade so steep.

My white whale wild in the seas,
this ship no sail, nor north agrees;
e-spurning taste of tease:
I am Ahab's intricacies.

To illusion am I ******,
eternally roaming the land;
through burning thirst for empathy
I''m plagued with insecurity.

In an old biblical story,
mortal glimpsed our father's glory;
from that instant's blinding light,
was driven mad- took his own sight