I clack and rattle at these keys with whatever feeble vapor still doth possess me. I am worn from weary travel, along the outskirts of sanity and the underlying meanings of reclamation. I feel the drudging pressure of burden and leadened sorrows slung daintily across the breadth of my shoulder-span. Each ungreased mechanism, each rusted joint flex into solid grooves, scraped and eroded from the continual back and forth of effort, of work, of valued labor.
Here lies the blind spot within my human nature. Here, in the perpetual glow and aura of light itself, I sit, my metallic soul basking in the utmost of void and the deepest of hues. It's hardly an instance of emotion or bleak, flailing anger; it lies solely in the context of alienated remorse, secluded regret, and, logistically, base and vile misunderstanding.
Why must I seek to restore shattered crystal that has degraded its value with each re-plastered shard?
Why must I remain so blind to the agonizing pleas of the few, the masses that surround me, crowding in ever closer, whispering my name with their impetuous and shrill voices filled with notes of a query I cannot possibly hope to supplement?
Why doth my heart retain its beating and my lungs possess pure breathing when that which lurks inside threatens to expose my ever-collapsing inhumanities?
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining?
Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of hell a-glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes, the danger must be growing
'Cause the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing.