by The Prophet, January 28, 2000
My eyes are red
Weary from looking.
My throat is dry
Weary from breathing.
To leave a cast used.
And thoughts remain to be latent
Until some miraculous wonder
Awakens them from their sleep.
This gentle sphere of which I am part
Seeks not to be gentle
But is cruel to an art.
The waves surge in a rhythmic pattern
Seeking to lull me in their song,
To give me rest by listening
But in effect cause me to consume my patience.
I cannot follow the beat of the ocean,
When the repetitiveness bores my mind,
Such things are never to be spoken
When the heavens are not blind.
Therefore my mind does not need to move
When moving is driven by the song
And now I can be lulled to the hum
And be contented with my sleep.