The Northernmost Star

A study of the excesses of partial submission in a Sophistic society (or the light they forgot to find).

Image Credit: 
Public Domain

Bow to them,
at every point
of the Star,
and, in absolving yourself,
bequeath oblivion
to Hope.

They like you
and you must play to that,
a Child in life,
scattered in smiles
pressured,
doubting,
Gone.

It is certainly easier
to Give,
not in honest sincerity,
but in pulse after pulse
of forgiving and forgetting acceptance,
what is mine is yours,
an End.

There is Dark Truth in it,
Rust as Form.
And bitten nails,
down to the quick,
as expression.

We have given delight
in other ways.
A succession
to what you deserve,
and these justified memories
you have learnt to release.

Where to does the mind return
when it has decided to lose itself?

It is our choice
to give over passage
on our home-bound ships,
to those strange travellers
that offer nightly fears
and dubious cargo.

You are now hidden in the rigging,
blasted by tempests,
scared of thought,
fighting this,
but in worrying
truly knowing thyself.

He walked all night from wayward Dartford and, seeing the lights of the tower of Margate, headed south and pitched his tent for two.

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