Unceasing and tireless, the mind whirrs
Amidst the present, adrift in deliberation

Engulfed, in the abyss of the surreal
Devouring in it’s void, the vestiges of the real

Conjuring up impossibles, it satiates it’s desires
A rye of gratification, even merely in illusion

And sometimes else, it drowns in fears
Of unfounded origins, and willful conclusions

And sometimes other, it weaves the yarn
Of the unfamiliar strands of the yet to come

As turbulent as the gusts of the northern peaks
As fickle as a feather in a wind that blows

Lost in a labyrinth of what distracts and detours
Astray in the momentary, temporizing what counts

I remain, in ponder, and in ire and in irk
Alas, a slave, to this whimsical lord