I’m racked by pangs that conquer trust, Nothing in this place but a manic lust, My mind tingle, and my heart is sick. If my blood won’t creep, my nerves will prick, The wheel of life speeding’s slow, And I’m no sheep, to go with the flow, No one nears me, when my light is low. No one hears me, if I pop or blow, I have it still, all the distress of spirit, And all the tension of its minute, But all that I need is here with me, I need no one to make it be

I have it still, the arrows, and the bow. And the duty, maybe something big, who knows, Something huge, grand, fair, but fat, I think you know it, “THE GOAL TO AIM AT”