Which way, some inkling, divine guidance,
show me that end, so I can muster the courage.
The battle rages, the field is strewn with necrotic flesh,
of mine, undertaken in quiet consolation of right,
yet death and disaster follow,
a whiff of sour turning pursued,
and I, the quarry of that bloodhound, unflinchingly focused,
my lame fleeing a loose rhapsody of movement,
desperate to escape my own brutality.
Fairness, my own delusion,
and persecution a pointless blame,
but a simple pointing will do,
a wink, a gesture of affable assistance,
at least one foot on sturdy ground, while worlds crumble,
let lessons learned account, a headway so slight,
so the undertaking can prevail without injury,
the path not laden with jagged stone,
yearning for my blood.
The silence tells the tail, my heart beat resounds,
no respite declared, the silence pointed, even pleasured,
or is that my paranoia, my un-tethered spite,
having to accept the whip, whenever the wind blows,
and in the end, the knowledge,
what happens is ordained, necessary,
and even if I could turn the time,
placate the circumstances,
I'd still be asking the same question.