What feels like dragging an anchor through the sand
Is just a weary man, stripped, of his beloved identity
As he looks ahead, to the forsaken path, and dreadfully sighs,
With dissatisfaction, of how he’s traveled an unforeseen
And an oblique distance, he ponders, how one man settles
While staring intensely out, through the frosted panes
Into a jaded blist-full scenario, that no one emerges
As the valiant one, but dreams, of a momentous moment,
Only to realize, he’s simply contrived the impossible,
A floating barrel, brimming with an unstable psychosis,
Closely stalkingly him in the pitch black unknown,
As he pulls on the weight, that forces him still,
So he howls, at the glow of the full moon, nestled
In the falling overcast, shrinking from its absence,
A furious fray, rages on, in the complicated mechanisms
Carefully cranking, each gear shifting the other in place,
What might seem, like an unruly jagged jigsaw,
Is paradoxical, for this man scours the land of dormant giants
That at any moment, will awaken, to tear him down, crumbling,
Then in a panic, he tries to collect himself, scattered
And struggling to keep bound, each piece resistant
To the onslaught of his fever, hoping harden his malleable
Self constructed being, riding the rim of insanity,
Fearfully aware, of the beasts still hibernating within,
And once those disengaged fragments, stray past the valley
They will rise, and take control, losing himself, unabridged,
Married, to the distant trail, never again, fully collected.
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