The scathing winds of time scour my mind asunder
Til I wonder e’er shall they be one.
Tis holy hell to know one thing yet have to profess another.

When the world around you accepts with alacrity
All mysticism proffered by the priests of knowledge
And your soul is stung to the depths.

You take accounting of yourself, and wonder.
Is all I am but an accounting of an unseen hand?
Or the same battle done by every man before.
Why, should I? Be anything more?

Tis wisdom, the elders say, as the nine bell chimes.
Bellowing from your belly, like all before
Who searched themselves, wrote
And died looking for more.

For that eternal truth, just beyond our grasp
Heaven and hell are nothing in this quest,
Knowledge and understanding
Are the goal and test with no answer and no proctor
Save Death.