Deep inside there is darkness. It soothes with
Its stillness: a surrogate womb.
At the centre, the eye of the storm
Which sees all, and knows all.
He cuts a streak of blackness through the moonlight,
A riptide of hurtling hurting sharpness.
Salt of the earth; the eyes have it.
Somewhere beyond blue fluid daggers of death
Behind veiled lashes there is
There is that what might be.
Surely it is more than a porcelain mask.
Weather-rotted exterior of a chest
Is what many have hoped to glimpse
Knowing that if the storm has not beaten the solid surface
Then the riches inside are worth the effort of
City streets meet country roads and roller-coaster across
Turbulent waves (row the boat relax, relax the pressure.)
Here is the centre of being , but still sunbeams and
Moonbeams war in an eclipse of night, day and
Each thought wars in a romantic epic of self.
There is peace, but it is empty.
Happiness is devoid of Joy.
Touch has no sensation.
His soul, his thoughts are open for all.
But they are madness…