The tilt and wilt of mind

I am so weary, so very tired,

living my life, my many lives,

in watercolour on glass,

the truth of transparency

tumbled to tease,

with shape but not colour

or colour run to mix

of wash, stealing the

comfort of foresight;

I must fight my every thought,

bully each errant spark for its

true essence, where once

I could construct reality from

a rich seam of experience, and

chisel away until truth was within

reason and beyond mere possibility,

now I must find objectivity,

touch the flame, to know it burns,

and though a tower still,

It’s now beyond my will.

So I go on a little bit further

and ask;

What does the thinker do,

when it becomes dangerous

to think, to explore mind

and matter, when his house

is no longer for God,

his foundation shaken

and by insidious tides taken;

he’s the arrogant blind, stepping

over fall and back again each day,

because he must, even though he

has no control of his limbs,

tied to strings,

and other things,

just a bobbing cork;

only balance saves us

from the innocent tilt,

and unforeseen wilt

waiting in the wings,

for our falter and fail;