Will
There is a will,
there is a means,
within my being,
to continue dreaming.
Despite the exhaustion,
the strange allure
to become inure,
numb and unsure.
The tempting displeasure
of monotony in leisure.
The laziness of belated days,
forlorn promises forgotten
just after New Year's day.
To kick the bucket
'for it's been written,
to give my soul the ease
and give up the tension.
But ...
My heart's a metronome,
a melody I cannot capture.
My mind's a maelstrom,
for my senses are enraptured.
I'll chase these fleeing sentences
till my day of days,
and even then,
my hand'll tremble and reach,
to clutch it's ethereal nature
in my final beat.
The sky's blooming life,
the stars craft cunning poetry.
It convolutes and tames all the same,
soothes and frustrates,
caresses and invigorates
an undying thirst
to solve mortality's verse.
The irony of this existence
is too unique to be ignored.
If this world bores you,
you are the bore.
There is a will,
there is a means,
within my being,
to continue dreaming.
A path of uncertainty,
a waltz of collecting impurity,
corrupted certainty and fear,
for the end of one
is just as the others':
drawing near.
Yet the journey's the tale,
the ending's an empty trail,
just a sad wish
for conclusiveness.
Instead, corral the attention
upon current fixations.
Forget the end;
beckon what else there is!
There is a will,
there is a means,
within my being,
to continue dreaming.
Amongst empty souls,
their shallow hearts--
mere puddles and pools.
Consider them maimed,
dead all the same.
I seek out those
who see as fools.
Their hearts are teeming
with propagating inklings,
soul gasping aches and heart cravings.
Their minds are carnivals,
mirror rooms and grand halls,
forests and blood moons,
explosions and ka-booms!
of ambition beating
inspiration in monsoons.
Their body's swathed in scars,
layers and layers of carved art,
from past and present wounds,
gauze wrappings and fresh flesh,
eager to draw from the world again.
For in them is a will,
there is a means,
within us all,
to continue dreaming.