The Problem of Mind

Feeling a depth of despair inescapable, an entangled mindweb is my dwelling and my tongue tastes of bitter longing. The face of my dearest is invisible, our past strangles my nerves and there is no solace for my weary corpse. As if the spirit alone hadn’t trials impossible, the body itself buffeted by strange human design and my infinite love repressed for profit, And yet still poor of coin, though afloat abiding, it feels a meager recompense that lovely ecstasy decay into solemn worldly agony on a whim of the cruel human organism, which, pulsing sickly ever feeds upon the precious energy rays of spinal wiring glow. Were that my memory confined to a treacherous orb, heavenly trust renewing promise could, existing of a divine grace, reach with shining finger and with healing caress clasp my cerebrum. The problem of mind deepens with its contemplation, that pain felt in wistful early days needs rise to exponential torturous sufferings inexplicable which enacts a new void of despairing tautology, the awful perfection glimpsed by mortal eye and tears as a waterfall streaming issue of eternal found of misery.