Sometimes we find it hard to conceive of fate,
To accept, led by the hand like a child,
But we are saved, each of us,
As we espy our true benefactor;
Not one taught or
believed to be coterie blind,
But a true saviour,
Ilk of a kind,
One that only we understand,
That only we know;
The anamnesis split.
Could it be that all things previous, to point,
were fruits bourn from this moment?
Set upon a path straying back in time,
Adventive but lucid in the channels of the mind,
Importunate, then graceful,
Our thoughts serry, fray the bonds of mere
And extend a hand, celestially bound,
Towards a new font, here;
Non-lieu sans anomie, quietly found.