Thrice

As I flip through pages

Seeking the warmth of their teachings

The breath of wisdom contained herein

My hands frozen, fire without burden

Which only reflect my indifference


Their sciences present a path

Twisting maelstrom, analog pain

An algorithm aching to be born

It has no concept of right or wrong

Mimicking the tin man who plays vain God


Their scriptures hold little meaning

These over saturated storybook nothings

A lighthouse bleak in the darkness, is

For if joy does not exist without sorrow

For then, when will sorrow be done with me?


Their music wells me up like soil

And as water muddy does, I expire

Whelmed by chaos and the sane alike

Trample, slump, out and in too deep

Resting on formed fields of electric sheep.