The mind drifts—
a raft on a restless tide.
Constantly pensive, yearning wonder.
Bombard me not; I’ve grown tired
of your siege. You duel with the heart
as though it’s a traitor to the council.
The heart snaps back:
You crown yourself a tyrant of logic,
yet build your kingdom on quicksand—
why chain me for trembling at the storm?
I am no traitor. I am the anchor
you keep dragging through the shallows.
The soul, slow as sediment:
You call me obsolete
when I name the undertow—
this council of breath and bone
was never yours to throne.
What is a tide without the moon’s pull?
A king without his chorus?
Absolute power, it murmurs,
corrodes like salt—
you etch your decrees in protocol,
yet we are currents
meant to merge, not conquer.
The mind unravels:
I did not choose this helm—
this map of a deepening void.
Each choice cracks like thin ice
beneath our feet.
Forgive the fractures.
I too drown in the wake
of what I’m tasked to navigate.
Hedonism’s tide drowns me, he claims—
stranded in the spin of pleasure, pain, panic.
I seek transcendence…
I seek the marrow of rest.
I seek transcendence…
unshackle me from this wave’s crest.
The heart hums:
Then sink into me.
Beneath your riptide of thought,
I am the kelp—
not drowning, but swaying,
not fleeing, but rooting.
The soul sighs:
Root here.
Even monarchs kneel
to the earth they stand on.
The mind, softer now:
I commend your light—
heart, your compass; soul, your tide.
Let the council’s chorus
chart this abyss.
Alone, I am only
a star
begging the night
not to swallow its spark.
