Nonsense

On the cold windswept plains of the fiery desert,

an incorrigible iconoclast assembled irrelevant dictations,

while the hard, cracked soil was soft and comforting,

beneath newly rested and tired feet.

Stumbling in the stillness of the dark,

Gathering bearings by only the brightest of dim flames,

the harrowing journey comfortably carried on,

for years at a time.

How can we do anything but wander,

when our sun, shining bright enough to burn skin,

cannot act as our compass,

to the darkness brought on by knowing the truth,

or learning that one can never fully understand it.

A fully understood vagueness varies,

as the visceral viciousness of vivacity,

drives a dearth of distinguishment,

through an egregious chiasm of miasma.

And on the journey of a thousand thoughts,

bearing an absence of any and all words,

once is forced to stop while pressed to move,

and asked to unravel and otherwise decode,

the mystery of dress slacks.