Dropped by a drizzle of infinite duration,
A single simple, scattered smattering of splattered saturation,
All that we feel is subject to sudden migration.
These tides of emotional position; disposition,
Of inhibition and ambition,
Of intuition and exposition,
Of ignition and intermission,
Are constantly in a state of transition; transmission.
Why push the river? Its flow is beyond control,
To worry about its current makes a mountain of a mole-knole,
Which we then stagger to the summit of- beating back a boulder,
Which hits it’s goal, slips from control and rolls.
This is our ancient toll– our precursor’s curse,
An insatiable thirst for a whole soul.