My mind walks and talks
with syllables and sounds
that take profound shapes
that only angels can hear
over the rustling and bustling
of the robotic overfed masses
that live and die to pollute and
consume

It creates tempests of thought
that threaten to overpower light
and distance with a Herculean
force that embodies the purity
of corrupt souls and corners the
weak with unadulterated suggestion
and immortal assumption in the timeless
battle between passion and submission
that compares to the epics of the
Greeks and the whispered rebellion
of patriotism.

Disguised as a search for self and the definition of worldly perfection,
it wearily travels with the
pre-destruction calm of impending
solitude