that chokes freedom from the self-conscious soul
waiting for rest that never comes.
in wasted fights of energy
given for sport.
All can watch without knowing
parading as moments of normality.
Where is thy king, o seer of my body,
so that I may slay him
and take back my life.
I grow weary once again,
oh demon of hell’s furnace.
Would I were saintly sanctified
by some easier path.
copyright 2013 John Smyth