One beside himself;
hand over fist,
disgorging the shrapnel
to bestrew his perditious path
He tries in vane to tame
the memory-go-round;
the golden ring long begone,
yet his mind it shackles still
There’s infinity in every footfall,
of his never-ending journey;
timelessness preempts salvation,
with a deafness of damnable knells
The solemn march of a good soldier,
forging into the beknownst unknown,
whilst forgotten ivory towers
tumble like knucklebones in his wake
He forever lacks elocution,
only inexpressible idyllic dogma;
as Providence bites her tongue,
behind an opalescent sneer
A mantra for the madman,
the grind of tread beneath his boot;
it’s with a privation of forgiveness,
he murmurs his heart’s lament
art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński
