Nothing fits. Every mind is unaware
Of its own insanity, or fatigued
In waiting for a glimmer in that stare,
Something from that void to answer our need.
Lunatic but who sees the moon any more
That still floats longingly above the screen
That shows us everything we must adore
That mirrors what is and has always been.
Words like rows of ants file across our lives
And off the page, burst into frenzied flame;
It is all too much, and too much deprives
The world and all mankind from their true aim.
There are too many answers, too little sense,
And when all is questioned, we need silence.