what mysticism
metastasizes 
in
me
what norms,
what trends,
what facial ticks,
these
odds and ends
constitute,
resound and 
resolutely-
the hand
soul, and head
that spills the ink,
cold,
before ye?

and why,
must he think of the endings
whilst
just still but beginning?

what mights
and 
moods,
to which he bends, 
he swoons, 
he complies unmoved,
and
still
ponders justice,
ponders of decades far
beyond
that which these organic eyes
might see,
ponders upon
the
fate
of those that live
while he, be
decomposing?

vain
and gory glory,
legends, told
horror stories,
in which
some species proved its 
heart-
yet think otherwise,
he’d not,
for against such
plight,
that the spirit proves
worth

as 
open hand beats closed
fist,
or,
so was learned at
lunch
among kids