Flecks of chaos pushing through the wake -
The edge of conscious, guarded thought;
It exists not for its own sake,
But for the lack of what is sought.

A rhythm without melody or beat,
An object without the definition of light;
It is what the eyes can't meet,
Blinded by the noise of mental flight.

Deliberately they set the blade,
With flush of wind it soon must fall -
No chance for the farewell bade,
Counting every chance it fails to stall.

It is death, this mindless muck -
Life too deliberate to deliberate -
Death delayed but by a touch of luck,
But delayed only - it will not abate.

They may sate it with a flow of blood,
From those whose blood will flow -
But they are they in whom life may bud,
And in their breasts will action grow.

Life lived in motion may flee at last -
The mind at absent rest may only fail;
The jungle may for now lay in the past,
But not far behind does it now trail.

Death shall catch they who intent screens -
Life not a product where chaos seeths.
Conscious motion, mind and means -
Are the air which existence breathes.