Travails of a demented Soul

A lot like Lot’s looking back
With no pillars this time,
But a corpse lain in curious repose,
In semi-recluse,
Tortured by tiny gods_
Emissaries of pestilence.
Somewhere between the Sea and the Chariots;
With nowhere to go,
He has found his rest.

Yet I sore
He who can’t be evinced,
The breathe that has flacked
The Soul without a body

Divorced from life
I journey into oblivion,
All the while looking back
At he who lies in a curious attitude,
The form in which I was sheltered
Whose heart used to beat,
In whose skin I used to quiver
And cringe
As he gaited along

A demented Soul
I have come to be
Off down yonder,
I ponder,
Deep and wide,
I travel,
On an odyssey
To the cosmos

In unison I roam,
With the melodies of the universe
My demise I embrace,
The travails of a demented one,
Furnished by the Master
Who reaped his pleasures
Where he found them

Had He in his tenure
Fathomed heaven,
I won’t be musing of
The travails of the demented one
Born of a mawkish mortal
In a life of pleasure,
With less to treasure
Yet lost in tides
Of perpetual wilds
The pain I reap is of incalculable measure!

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