The Things of Which They Are, 1999

Every man once lived has tasted ruin,
and now sleeps underground.
In philosophy, psychology, and pursuing,
I’ve received no peace of mind, or sound.

Rationality in this chaos,
inside me like a newborn star;
though in all my endeavors pursued  cause,
to never see the things of which they are,
and in my studies there has been no pause.

As a moth lost in a hurricane,
I have approached this life;
I beat myself against the glass,
of the window, seeing light—
a beacon outside amidst the night.

With that light upon me fading,
and a path of truth unsure,
still looking for that one safe haven,
where I might again be pure.

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