Toil

Constrained in flesh, tied to the beat of muscle

Mind paces through forever, locked prisms of fashion home-grown

Grasp and step, toil and remake

What body of man would touch the sun

Which name enter the whisper of a thousand winds

Not one sea of ashes drifts forever

No title plasters the walls of the immortal

To what toil does the blind man crawl

Surely he who seeks dies cold and his company dim

Parched in his quest to slake thirst unending