At last.

A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.

William Wordsworth


Preceding December, The feelings that rise.

Hath wroth reins roiled me,
And blown me here tonight,
When darkened days do dim,
The lids that loom invite,
And sacred understanding flaws, at merest whim,
For my endeavor is the battle, the sputter and the prattle,
And while bracing for defeat
I am never truly living; for suspended animation is expeditiously discreet,
Only on the horizon, of victory do I employ,
Joy, joy, and evermore joyous become.


On writing this poem I felt for a lack of beauties in my life, beauties which are unseen by most, but once were experienced by all; those brief moments when everything around you is just visually, emotionally and spiritually perfect. Those precious feelings we begin to lose when conditioned to the hurtful, the repulsive and the subocularly deadening powers of everyday life on this gods’ forsaken planet.