I wage the war metaphysical,
A lonely general on a lonely field.
Trumpets and alarums sound across
The furrows of my brow. The deceased
Ideologies of a nascent mind are strewn
Along the lines of lethal concentrations.
Camps of thought are born, live, grow
And die in the span of my imaginations.
Emissaries of distant civilizations lobby
In the dusty halls of my consciousness.
They have the patience of the eternal moment,
And I am running out of time.
They are sipping on my sweat,
It’s a war of attrition,
They’ve infinite nutrition,
And I am running out of Soul.