Troublesome is the mind that suffers from Rambler’s Grief.
Wanting words to say, and parroting his usual complaints.
Circling about overworked thoughts, stale and without reprieve.
How nice it would seem to be rid of this disease.
Worthless, causeless, mindless, and retarded,
Dimmed and dulled and dusted and diminished,
Cornered by consciousness, trapped in a self-made box,
Like an old man telling his only story for the thousandth time.
Something interesting! Of course, it would be so easy,
To show up my knowledge for everyone to admire,
If only they didn’t already know the words I write,
Then maybe I’d say something worth reading about.
Yet time is the sacred commodity. It becomes robbery for me
To sell you your own thoughts for an irrevocable coin,
An eye for an eye, worth a word for a word,
His intention becomes trifling without your reward.
What does it mean to have an original thought?
Or perhaps, at least, to turn over the fabric,
And sew a different fiber of an astounding weave,
Formed in a tapestry worth admiring?
It all feels that I am, I know, I am a living waste,
Sordid, choleric, a molted mind across charred slate,
Embers of a dreaming wannabe, lost in consuming apathy
With a desire to be remembered for something worthy.
It’s a fleeting feeling and an unkind memory,
To encounter desires that come around again.
With repetition to repeal, and reparation to redeem
His soul and grant himself everlasting life.
All he wants is to be a memory afloat upon the waves,
The source of a cascading thought, his only quality,
Success of creating actuality, causation of reality,
An evolution of a muse that progresses through his veins.
How dry and remote is this deserted mind,
That tries to evoke something from nothing.
And he tries, he swears, he can finally make it,
If he could keep trudging the long road to find it.
It’s the desire, the drive, the everlasting cry
Inside his heart that beats it hard, that grants it life.
It is his race against time, his only try,
To surpass death to the summit and claim his prize.
The young soul knows his trials before him,
That time his only friend, that his dream alone is empty,
That he only creates by effort, that he succeeds by chance,
That he races to win before death comes as a thief in the night.
He knows, he swears, that he has failed until he succeeds
So he leaves a trail of attempts behind him as a warning.
His ode to intelligence, his vision of humanity,
That all souls who want will not let death be their arbiter,
That you will abandon fear of your own trials,
That you will take possession of your time,
That you will spend your life wisely,
That you will overcome Rambler’s Grief.
