oh wanton brain
tireless yoni,
you maze of shame,
oh labyrinth lust.
the scourge of blame
unnerving stains:

It's all the same,
drives me insane.

It's like the rain,
this endless pain
that makes me lame
tho' trained to hunger,
eat unrestrained.
the loss of name,
is a brainless strain,
a daunting game.

Perhaps the rain
will wash me sane
and I'll rethink
the tasteless game
with painful joints
and scourging neck
Oh tireless life,
thou labyrinth tree,
should uplift me
not fasten to thee
this soul not free of this body.

Of life's labyrinth
I weary so,
woof of my warp
unravelling in me
awash in napping
what is this game?
and my true name?
a smouldring flame
without
a fire ,

the murk of gain,
through wildfires ravaged,
it frayes my nerves
oh nerve of endings,
down my back,
runs unfound fame,
but what to gain
from wobbly frames?

but untame thighs,
more shameless shame;
neurons misfiring in the brain.

thanks for rain,
puts out the fire,
that eats the paper,
and makes it plain:
there's more to life
than living pain,
for life a flame,
of Sun we name
or choose to blame for
innane murk
acting like jerks,
disregarding that pain
is our only gain
at the end of distain
for what was once
given
by sun and rain
maker of our pain, Creation.

The scourge of the sun,
when we thought we were done,
thought we could name it
thought we could tame it,
as if all things were the same,
some sort of a game for human gain, it's inhumane.

Well, you know your pain
has turned
to shame
when sun eats sky
causing you pain
you rise like rain
from the labyrinth ground
that we've found too familiar
to treat any longer
as lover, sacred other.

Our mother.
There is no other.
Who shall we blame
when the end is our game.