He
cleaves to ideals, somewhat boxed in, to rival the ethicists; the nights are
young, when the days are old, to picture perfect principles; but it isn’t as it
is, rounded as a square, where light is darkness and darkness is light. He
couldn’t for seeing—this sphere of grayness, to wonder of one’s training; where
dearth is need, and needs become screams, raging through a countenance. He
felt it for simple, the sequences of this system, to stumble upon webs—a mallet
to a screw, a wrench to a nail, even to meet the concrete skies; but he found
appeal, in a vest of answers, to address the human condition. Oh the jaded
complex; to rival the moralists, to see a labyrinth; whereby to either fumble,
play the sophist, or compromise hardened positions. He studies our pains: the
angst of success, the inner turmoil, that sense of reaching forever; moreover:
the gnawing pressures, those irksome midways, where it’s neither certain nor
understood; for there comes for times—that tender glimpse, to charge our inner
battery—where epiphanies cause sullenness. Her rides the merry-go-round, argues
the carousel, and pushes for clarity; but oh this need;—this screaming need,
pictured in a painted portrait—to need for glitter, and adverse to glitter,
sailing sullen silence. He read for answers, to see a thread, to seek out for
roots; the turquoise skies, the hellish growths, that too far zone called
Xanadu. How to live it—this thing so crooked, where circumstance alters
realities; hence, the complications, to scribble a law, to preside over
justice; where one is self-defense, another is malice, and one is far too gray.
He ventures the sunrays—that close to rain, and furthermore the grains!
