He is writing on the walls of a tomb
They all line oblivion’s womb
Yet he is happy there is enough room
to save himself from spiritual doom
And the shaky letters tell him a tale
of the scrabble at the pace of a snail
The joy in belonging to freedom is bail
That a dragon’s heart is never on sale
The salt in him is never dissolved
Even the problem is a solution; though unresolved
The face not masked; the hand not gloved
Among the mountains of his silent beloved
The sacrifice of action is in a passion
For vacation from impulse; instinct’s dislocation
The choices of distraction don’t get traction
When the faction is greater good’s satisfaction
And will she be his ever amid the treachery?
Is he so indomitable and invincible, the evil P?
So thrown apart is love, so seemingly in vain
How can the evil P’s treachery keep having reign?
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