Corpse ridden burden, of weights and hurls
and sacs of sand that break my back. These
questions bring bouts of sorrow and tears
as weak as a twine tied to two moving
Objects. Can being be told the enigma
Of space and not wander the wondering fields
of old and rotten pastures—trees sprouting
orange and apple fruits. Picked delightfully by
the passing woes of souls of ancient time.
Can all sights be described with simple reason?—
An implication of influence upon the gesture of
Eyes, blind from the venom of snakes and fingers
melted by the acids of forgotten words and ideals.
Shall the mountains be torn by our desires—to great
To uphold in all realization a sense of true need for such
ejection of change?

Or shall it become a game of dice and sin?
Gambling with odds to the dismal end—
When the only tunnels end where the desires
dare to throw the dice
Again.