A trio of extential sonnets.

Inwards into the unknown.

Oh Who are you most fair and loving soul.
The stars look upon you with envy so great.
Oh who are you thoust tare my heart anew.
So still my heart becomes and hate hides in.

To write and yet torture myself again.
To peer into the darkest of my soul.
I try to grasp the height I once so very felt,
One must strain to resists the fear in ones heart.

The darker my soul may stain is only right,
I deserve what I have sown, still I feel.
This looming pain, this hovering colour.
I am becoming so alone within.

I will love myself like no other shall love.
To cage this dove will be a crime untold.

The Questions of an Owl.

What are you? How do you define yourself?
Can you even possibly define yourself?
Ever cycling like the morning due.
What do you do? Child. What do you do? Man.

Question after question floods broken souls.
Answer after answer we try to grasp.
As if a token can be passed for one.
High above we look and see; who us truth!

What is the question now? What do I seek?
Will the answer ever come to ourselves?
Ever look through the veil as to peek inside?
Never will I know, but perhaps we shall.

This is a revolution of the mind!
For all human kind. We shall make what is.

To Dream, and yet to Live.

Can you tell the difference between dreams?
To never know when one still is awake.
If only there was something I could sell.
To ever know the things I should be born with,

 To analyze what shows from within: truth.
Faith is only as good as the god's love.
The highs and the lows are all I care for.
The hood we pull over our eyes; darkness made.

What is it to be awake or to dream?
Lucidly I feel, lucidly I dream.
The snake that slithers along the paths floor.
To share ones final meal to love and tear.

What we make is what we get. One is one.
To take the bet in such a loving move.