BETWEEN DOUBTS

I've never been swaddled by prideful vanity. I backed away half-heartedly out of childish tact. My nomadic instinct was the only guiding star to protect and guide me in my seclusion, and the example: even in the muddy swamp of insidious sneakiness I tried to remain a Man!

Now I still wait, my doubts clutching my heart in a vise. I still wish I could moor again on the andalic sandhills of two shores. Saviour, holy Peace, where art thou? The fierce ant-struggle of quarrymen rattles busily in the cogs of my brain, while my crypt-arms on the sands of days roar into the abyss! 

Unwaveringly I give-not-give myself! It is now a universal, moral rule. My self-contradictory, self-contradictory conscience raises an altar: how shall the continuation of existence be conceived? The other half of my soul, my partner in my wound, where art thou now?! My unquenchable hope of finding thee sooner or later I'm sure to find thee While my wavering faith is tamed to a tolerant rock. 

My head's softness has long since grown: yet I cannot give up my childish dreams. Like malleable material, I am bent and shaped daily by thoughtful stories, by fate's strokes. And yet, in degrees, I recognize around me the insidious, corruptible vices of these frail human characters, echoing voices crying out for help. 

And yet there are many times in my existence vile doubters: doubters with Plautusian delight at the downfall of others, who feed on human wickedness; I am a prisoner who, with even just responsibility, imprisons himself in audible solitude. My dear, if you hear me, listen to my purring, growling heart and lull my fearful motherly doubts with a fearful motherly care!