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Description
We run to the cup of pleasure to dowse
Out unhappy embers--a ritual
Against the wildfire of sorrow,
Which ravishes even the greatest souls
If allowed to take hold. This fear smoulders,
The lack of control, to be pulled inside
The churning vortex always held within
Reach--its smoking tendrils bleed their awful
Heat, a heat we feel only during times
Of quiet reflection, alone, or twisted
Under not-quite-unbroken dreams, our beds
Become tourniquets to seal in the night,
A darkness that makes us yearn for any
Light, including those cast by the flickers
Of anguish, because that meager glow, though
Painful to bear, overruns extinction.
Eventually, confusion completes.
We can no more distinguish between ends,
The pleasures, the pains of life merely are
Reminders that an abyss waits beyond
Sensation and thought. It is truly rare
To find ones who welcome all that's offered,
But they are they that swelter votively
Sleeping, while we unrested burn awake.