‘We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. ‘
T.S. Eliot — “Little Gidding” (the last of his Four Quartets)
Aimlessly to walk; without direction nor fear as prime motivators.
Like seeds that the sower throws unto the wayside.
Nomadic ship; the spirit, the soul; the mind it’s disoriented navigator.
Mind likened unto blade, stone unto razor — sharp. astute.
Men who wish to stumble by grace upon a path; the path.
A path where no path lies. A path where every path lies
Like the points upon an infinite plane.
To trevail, to endure, to suffer; eons upon eons..
Only to find the avenue you deemed lead somewhere, really lead nowhere.
Empty he stands.
Palms faced downwards, his head in anguish and pain beholds the tainted grey pillows of the skies.
The skin of an infant’s feet; as he treads his skin daily pierced by the shards of glass that pervade it.
Bellows of bitter agony, Suffering defeat.
That the heavens may again be renewed to their palpable flavour.
Like child lost from mother; the crooning bird caged.
Precariously perched on mountaintops, surveying foreign cities with no beginning neither end.
Dazed and confused; leaving Hope dashed and battered at Fate’s door.
Studying the celestial sphere pursuing a Creator.
What manner of life would impart his children to misery?
Resignedly he sits, more abashed and perturbed then he began.