Confusion rankles history's
Bluff—all flats are steep and
Cycles warped. I cringe, all
Senses cross-wired
Deep, and
Wait for
Clearings dim...

Get what you can while the
Getting's loose and
Tuck it, quick,
Away.
Certainty's lost and
Luck is dead and we can't even
Pray.

Why am I sick of my
Dearly-won
Self; and, why are
You so deaf to
Pleas?
Sanity's crying from being so
Lost and I don't actually feel
Quite like me...

World-sick and
Wandering,
Mind lost, can't
See what makes any
Clear difference or
Not. We've lost quite
Profoundly, we've muddled our path. All
Endings are flimsy with
Rot.

Soul-sick and
Searching, I lay with no
Breath, no real strength left to
Move, no respite. Even
Life seems a joke, even
Love brings but
Pain and the
Self of my
Search seems so Trite...

Battling brain-floods and snows of the
Heart with a
Stoic persistence not
Mine. I'm moving again, some small
Heat comes my way; of this
World? You tell me; I'm still
Lost...

One
Choice is
All that's truly left—let my body go on with this
Still moving
Soul?

Grief and
Joy are past me now—
I'm heading for the
Road, where souls before have
Clearly marked the
Way—
Self's
Death in
SELF.

Hope is what I've never
Owned—on lease from way
On-High; or, so, so deep
Direction's lost; so what? At least I'm
Free!

~ ~ ~

Alexander M Zoltai, Far Shore Publications, 1998-1999