As the years drag on
Burdensome accumulations
Towing the yoke of history
Tilling arid soil
Once defiant, honed and gleaming,
Marred by regrets and defeats
In private wars of little wider consequence
The blade now dull and heavy,
Futile
No closer than before
The end can never come
Only a fool would seek
Release from his labours
Within my panopticon
Lashed, limbs outstretched
Fastened at five points
Dislocated from the core
Withering in stasis
Awaiting conclusion
Searing heat of illumination
Ceaseless pain of salvation
Searing
Heat
Ceaseless
Pain