Nothing is form and everything lost
The mind, for once, concerned not with cost
Nor the trifles of everyday life,
The beleaguered groan of toil and strife.
All is sound, entirety is pure
Blackness surrounds while light glimmers sure
My effort, my search, my essence
Is healed.

But before this it stings
It yells and it screams,
Jabs, riddles and taunts
Weighted by heavy onslaughts.
My strength measures a thimble
Guilt multiplying and nimble
Grins a devilish dimple
And responds to me simple:
Your mutiny is my reward
A treasure for us marching toward
Salvation’s gate, in hand a sword
Armed against the mightily bored
We yawn in your face of import and power
We snag at your yarn of beguiling tower
A wretched old man grown sour and dour
Not just one but double the rhyme
Means look at the sign
Look at the signs!