The Nihilist - Eight: the Searcher
How high the moon in comparison
To the depths in which I sink;
How black the nightfall garrison,
How black the thoughts I think.
In every niche I see her,
Every place I think I spy
Glimpses of something proximate
In peripheral white of the eye.
I seek with fevered staring,
I seek when more sedate,
And all the time comparing
Degrees of love and hate.
The searcher and his tether
Are bound so they are one,
Through endless shifts in weather,
Inclement skies and sun.
On desert plains and highways,
Through anguish and through bliss,
On crooked wasteland byways,
Or cold metropolis.
I microscope my mind,
My bare soul scrutinised,
For scraps of clues to find
Some answers symbolised.
The heart is driven weak
By all it left unsaid,
How long must someone seek
For something known as dead.
Yet search by force of will
Until all hope is gone,
And time is all to kill,
And travel travels on…
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