For the intellect on its own

    cannot

Seriously cannot

      explain away all the shocks and humiliations of

   experience

                                                   

                                                   

        And it is those that will live

                                                   

        who possess the hope

       Born of instinctual longing

          though they be the ones

            to suffer the barbs of life the keenest

                                                  

                                                            Does the aquired stillness

                                                 

                                                                 Of subordination

                                       

                                                                  serve to suffice

                                                   For the roar of the unconquerable ocean

                                                           beneath your mortal feet?

The irony that kills the onlooker

is how an actor is required

in an imaginary situation

to speak the truth

Using someone else's words

in borrowed clothing

to a complete stranger

While in everyday life the pursuit of truth

is seen as ridiculous

and emoting in public

as abhorrent

For life at its core

is a moving growing

flickering thing

It flashes its moods; dark and light

It moves and morphs

burns and blows its way

From birth to death

eternal serenity is for a dead man

Or woman