Oh, Brave New Whorl.....

Poetry is but a new prosthesis

On which depends survival of the soul.

Where once kings placed Truth upon the masses,

A relative concavity takes hold.

Truth is but a construct of upbringing,

And right is but another form of wrong.

So becomes that faith is self-deceiving

And so becomes that noise can be called song.

In these waters tempests are the normal,

Foundations of a fortress often sand.

Often times a man can lose his footing

And find himself upon the earth again.