Whole, my son,
Accept it whole,
I beseech you; do not live in a hole,
Where you will find nothing but rot and pain,
Where you will find nothing to gain,
I come from a distant land where I was told,
That I will come across feats to behold,
Though I arrive sceptically to the consensus,
I will end up feeling reckless,
Albeit a new quest will arise,
If not, I might find it a pleasant surprise,
It will be a long tiring road,
Decided I to hop on its abode,
But fear not my loyal friend,
You will reach but a dead end,
As you stumble across and see,
That all of this is shaman mystery,
Driven by angst and pursuit,
You will find nothing but theft and loot,
People gathered at Doomsday will ask,
Who in his right mind would delegate such task?
That we all live in a hornet’s nest,
Where we all fight in a worthless contest,
It is He who would dignify such answer,
Before we all fall like a body infested with
cancer,
Cremated beyond recognition; that is life,
Yet not fazed with such ill strife,
We carry along with no remorse,
As we intently grow more coarse,
Benign, adamant and content,
Turned malignant, sardonic and contempt,
Might we succeed in the end?
Or will we die as we contend?
It is the journey, the long walk,
That makes us endure such distant talk,
Yet the thing of which I am certain,
All will prevail, before the fall of the
curtain.
Jackson Pollock's Ocean Greyness
