and always on the move, changing
with each new amplitude - breeds a unique battle ground,
each more calamitous than the last.
But the words rolled around, over and over again
in my head, and on my tongue
are the same, trite and crass.
The meaning of them grows obsolete
and only proves the mind's subservience to a distant past,
as the will to fight fluctuates in violent streams.
Like the Sun I hold no peace,
but there is equilibrium within reach.
I believe I can but just can't figure out
how to stop, or fool, or destroy an enemy
which is neither man nor ghost,
but inherent contradiction
between the self and the soul.
1 comment:
nice poem.
Post a Comment