By Tony DeLorger © 2011
Buried in the will of others,
I struggle to breathe clean air.
Like a stone in a torrent tossed,
I can only hope for release,
the stillness of rest.
Like being in a cross-fire of intent,
the world’s quarry I remain,
back and forth in avoidance I parry,
unprepared for the travesty of confusion.
Souls hover like spectres,
vying for life unattainable, out of reach,
within the realms of unacknowledged life,
unchartered and unrecognised.
Answers are never afforded
to those unwilling to accept truth,
the irony of human blindness.
They all hurt my head,
their mental gymnastics and affront,
of havoc cast on sullen days.
It is my will to relinguish their minds,
their justifications and actions bent,
to hold close my ideals,
without the mess of human refuse.
My own company resides in rest,
not lost to indiscriminate lies,
nor the beating of time’s decay.
Just the tranquillity of a mind
in quiet surrender,
the master of self, alone.
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