Safe passage to a world far away,
the vessel sails 'cross oceans hue,
guided truely by grunting crew within,
and lead astray by maelstroms of synapse that brew.
The diametric daemons stand opposed within my cabin,
granite constructs engaged in a war of wills,
and I caught in the middle of fixed stare
to buffer the medusic powers.
Vessel sways back and forth,
rocking with balance of power,
and through tranquil waters and riotus whirlpools
set to spin headlong in the direction of uncertain horizon.
Consciuousness, like the beings it governs,
will fear what bears it no understanding,
will hate what bears it disregard,
will consider it an act opposed to righteous.
And so the mind will doubt what it itself already knows,
and go to search for a reason to the crime...
only to find that reason has give into rhyme,
a shock to cerebral senses.
And the mind gives up,
stuck fast in mute desparation,
and I plunge headstrong,
now free of burdening maelstrom,
as I abandon all need for explanation,
to seek out the birth of my creation.
But why? But why, I ask?
Is it really too much to give me?
A response to this single syllable?
To which reply: But you were there,
What ask you more?
Your queries are making my head sore,
what ask you more,