Imprecations of the stream are moot in deltas as they reach the sea.
Everything’s aim’s to gain as through nature’s perversity,
And while we grope at times, we may never quite roll the stone
That blocks the entrance to the Sepulcher. Risking all we’re not, we are alone
And there’s the open sore. The same applies its rule for everyone who breathes
To live and never mind the other way around. As the madding cloud seethes
Above the villages, so, too, the volcanic will must relieve itself, erupt, cool
And leave future’s aching fortresses astride a season’s lethal rut. Fools
And angels build as well on sand as on a known caldera
Knowing safety’s but a syllable in life, a symbol, a chimæra
Of the mind. Is it God or His Creation that thrives on anarchy and a scintilla
Of chaos less than light conversation on the price of eggs with Manila
Within a stone’s toss of Hell, itself? Who here’s merely waiting for a train
And who has no umbrella to protect his children from the evening rain?