Pantheons & Soup Kitchens

I keep waking up
for no paticular reason.

There are ants in my tarantula.
Terrible dreams of the novice in me
delight in eviscerating
all the patience I've earned.

Too many popular theories
are swirling so close to the drain.
Why is it, reading Nietzche,
we find a man whose soul intent
was providing a language of confidence
in confidently describing 
how best he knows nothing at all?

This frightens the muse in you?
The nude is skittish to plots
that thicken. Yet, in the diluting mess
of love after love needing nothing less,
we do truly embark on a journey
so intent on walling us in.

"This is dramatic." Remarks the voice
wishing to stumble throughout your head.
"Why can't I remain all of me 
while you be willing to endure
the endless truth of its source?"
But the truth is
we're all in love
and insane,
needing to be captured,
kept up, and dependenable
as near lifeless remnants
of this harrowing passenger.
For it is in our hearts
that we shuffle
and in our feet
that we stand the ground
with which reality offers,
awaiting the moment
to embrace the simplest of ideas
and hold on; hold on for dear life
as the tunnel tightens
and the storm races,
nibbing like vertigo at the heels
of Hermes himself.