Cyclone Silent

Oh, my, cyclone silent,
Sick cyclamen arrest.
Blond bob-tail flower
Or butter creep
Soft confidence and jest.

Shatter this cymbal, sugar cream
Death-poignancy, wet nest
A graveyard's pallet,
Volcano-ing
Brushed black with
Pleasure rest

Yep, just over there

And there's a notion, that balance is the key.
Yet that word is as ethereal as love
What line, between intuition
And reason?

Words on a page
Voices from our mouths
Never an inner silence; always a fizzing fear

Feeling steady is unready, adrenaline, unclear
Options are the goals of man
But two feet step apart, and we wonder who's inane

Not polished, not free
Bound in a flesh shroud
Stretching for our sea

Shard of Cynic Thrash

'The most beautiful and the most profound emotion we can experience is the sensation of the mystical. It is the source of all true science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead'
Albert Einstein