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