Poem of Disquiet

The soul in me knows perfect quiet.

It prefers an arena in which it is free to riot

and blossom,

and deprecate,

and be forgotten,

and feel putrid, chewed up, downtrodden and rotten,

and run wild and free in the chaotic disquiet,

until it returns to the motionless silence.

Where once again it will eagerly await

to return to its loud, imperfect state.