The gratuitous sun, o’ quite alike the heart
Beaming down and bounding
Beating in the light no more when ceasing in the darkness
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The roaming winds, no not unlike the soul
Hear it whistle as it whispers
Impossible to snare; it’s free-form contrary to flow-less
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The Rains that drop, o’ quite alike the breath
Pity-not the petty pattern
A necessary cycle; a-system solely sound to cleanse us
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The storm that blinds, no not unlike the senses
Pushing, biting, howling
An unrelenting slaver hides us in the tense that binds us
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The swelling tide, o’ quite alike the mind
The shore is surely thrashing
Flowing ever more with every wave; a thought behind us
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Flow-less ever more the final wave soon comes the darkness
For us comes the night that dims the light it comes to cleanse us
Flawless in design the faulty system that which binds is
Flowing ever more with every wave; a thought behind us
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