This is a poem that I wrote reflecting the way humans deal with their surroundings, their detrimental experiences, and simple everyday life; as well as the almost primordial, and feral processes in which they actually do cope. I feel morality and simple philosophy on life can be scraped out of here as well.
Logan.
Isolation,
The doldrums of the soul.
Tribulation,
The concrete substance of our being.
Fallacies,
The things in which we trust.
Broken are we.
We are the tributaries of life,
yet the precipice of existence
we comprise.
Time is our vex.
While future is precious,
the past is the past,
and the vex goes on.
Where is our mentality?
Where are our aesthetics?
We thrive for each to be elite,
yet we cannot find the source.
In time, we may discover these incomprehensible matters.
Maybe in the doldrums in the soul,
perhaps in the concrete foundation of our being
or we just may find it in which we trust.
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