Fountainhead

Crave for no more, nor the self that would

Not even that which always is there

Needy of naught, but to be constrained

From any care and want of a selfish urge

What is needed save strengthened will of man

Fulfilment of all that is latent within

What is to fear, what do they hate?

How can they even bear to look at themselves

Those who love to crawl?

Near breaking point

From the bows you've made

Towards the constructed

Deity's power

Reverence due,

not to unseen mights

nor lack of clarity,

but to the well-known, familiar

ever present miracle of the

I, Fountainhead of... progress

How can anyone with serious integrity

abandon all that's left for me

and still be free to seek what's real?

Where's the logic thought,

the one thing that should be guide our way

throughout this solitary state that we call life?

Where's the I, Fountainhead of progress?