What exactly does one do
When one hates the flesh?
It’s difficult to comprehend
Why nothing seems to mesh,
All broken crags and tortured ground.
The devils of psychology
Let loose upon our souls
Run marathons with energy
Borrowed from our goals
Wreak havoc, leave us bound
To with’ring limbs and useless pounds.
How do we win redemption
From the demons of the mind
Whose cold compressive tentacles
Round ‘bout our egos wind?
We’ve lost our way, our corpse unsound,
With failing sight, our key unfound,
The tumblers rust, the lock froze shut
We’re trapped within our mound.
19 December 2004
In the dark and distant future the Tartarus Rim can be just this side of hell . . . Or the closest thing to salvation.
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