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Frail flesh is heir
To a sea of troubles,
And the human condition
Impaled upon the horns of choice:
To linger, twilit,
In fringes of oblivion
Or to bury hardened heels
Stubborn, in fallow dirt ?

There is nobility
In the vacance of the vessel

The dirt smeared beast,
Spine bent under burden,
Struggles through the muck
And is reborn in the mud,
To struggle, beaten
Bloody but unbowed
Or to buckle at the knees
And draw mud into lun

Now the second:
The obliterate's nature,
And invertebrate mutt
Or self-contained god ?
The quietus of cowards
Or a divine transcendence ?
There is nobility
In the vacance of the vessel

The flesh is heir
To a pale cast of thought,
To a bare breast to whips
Or by ignoring, end them ?

All that matters is struggle

The third question;
The nature of the realist,
A worm feeding on mud
Or human in excelsis ?
The ceaseless trials of Sisyphus
Or a noble struggle ?
Every absurd query
Deluged, deeper in shit

The slate-eyed god:
An addict of transcendence
Grins madly in the grip
Of a selfish junky zen
Unhinged mind unmoored
And heels in tug's tide
Empty, vacant, useless
Listless, in opiate voids

The nature of man
Is thought before the answer
A struggle
The nature of man
Is constant internal battle
All that matters is struggle

The flesh is heir
To a pale cast of thought
The mind rotten with
Whips and scorns of doubt
An internal struggle
From which humanity stems:
To bare breast to whips
Or by ignoring, end them?

All that matters is struggle

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