| Written: SEPT 13, 2003 |
Sitting in wait for that which never
Comes to fruition.
A life, a simple thing
If only I could bear to stand
To move and enliven myself.
Instead I wallow in pity and lack of
Force, a pious limbless monk;
Dedicated to himself,
But forever forsaking all action.
Is this the ultimate purification of my soul,
Or to I reside here alone
Quarantined in uselessness,
Contagious in the extreme
A man without a path, stranded.
Sit with me not,
For fear of me latching my dirty claws
Stretch, tearing your flesh and
Vanquishing your will with my own.
