these recurring fires,
   these moments blank
with stark, shrilling air.
the already memorized movement
   of the clocks
  and what these dictate us to be.
over life's ferocious waters
   and the undertow of tranquil,
  what is in it for me, that the world continually hurls forever
  a hand that is not mine?
a kiss that is someone else's?
  a glance that is not for
    mine unquenchable thirst?
these cities tender with foolishness
these sick, marauded streets
with faithless crowds
   waving empty bottles at the sky
  like a sordid army marching
    through the marshes of this
  empty life!

what is in it for me that the world
   continues to plod with inquiries
   but does not flourish with
     answers?
that when time speeds right on
   by, the youth is culled out
    of the gardens waiting forever
   for wisdom to fall like rain
     over these scrunched flowers!
  what is in it for me that
   there are forever the shadows,
   and the gamblers, and the
     brutal game of life that we only know in death, in hate, in love? these words start to seek
their fathering answers and now we are embroiled in a fortuitous enigma that in the imperious nebula of life, when these tender loves
and lives start to wax in the same orbit finding paths, we will continue to be stars clinging onto each one to form a single light that could beat the darkness.