I'll be damned if I'd
believed in the future of the future,
and all the things I believe I believe on.

See, they've all come and gone
and I still can't walk on water,
and am still not sure
what ground I stand upon.

I look on the whole cosmic creation,
each microscopic piece a part of the whole;
and gaze intently upon it but nothing, nothing,
nothing, is what I behold!

Yeah I see images.
But they refuse
to explain their language, and they daily speak,
but void are they of pity;
trudging to some distant ever rising peak,
whilst aimless and hopeless wander they
who boast of being created in the image of.

Condemned to this nameless below,
possessed by thoughts of the above,
even as they meander in an aimless
wandering flow.

Nevertheless.

Religion seeks to impress upon me
that there be reason and rhyme
in this here madness called time;
but my mind, being what it is,
refuses to fathom any other dimension,
even when its called bliss!

Yet, below the domain of this so called
rational self I'm haunted perpetually,
in and out of every season..
haunted by the nagging sensation;
nay a compulsive agitation!
which refuses to be silenced
by any form of titillation.

In the back of my mind I sense
there is more to my rabid situation.
Yet I'm flung, aimlessly it seems,
through this vortex of birth,
life and death,
whilst the noose
of finality tightens like a net,
hounding me like one who owes a debt;
the origins of which I have no precept or concept.

Faith beckons to me wildly from the
fringes of sub-conscious contemplation.

Shouting:
I know the answer!
I know the answer!
I know the way out of certain damnation!

Like most men I approach faith
with the intent of forcing it
into the mold of rational calculation.

But faith resists.
Letting in only those who persist;
believing without the fleshy
prerequisite of seeing.

Then the peace which passes all understanding
becomes possible amidst this torrid gyration.

Right then, though, Jesus and Allah and Jehovah
and Krishna and Vishnu;
along with every sage who ever got clothed in flesh,
are invoked,
and men pick up guns to defend the gods
whom they fetch;
coming full circle once again to the place
of never seeing the big picture
but always seeing the sketch.
the sketch.

the sketch..