My paths are numerous as the pens of ink,
They write along the way that is righteous,
And stray thoughts ignite my calibre
For the passages are distinct and ready.
My energy fiddles with flight as an atrocity,
Fingers of my hand are numb
In their eccentricity, feelings of the tower
Are upon me;
Little love has the guard on duty.
My paths match where the crosses run,
And the map walks with me,
Crunching the ground as a gift for the over clever.
My way sees colours of blue and green and red
So that mixtures play sand games,
Fixing their juggles and jitters.
My pardon is the whole act,
Neat writing is a part of the fallacy
Of my life, where I dazzle the sports
As a runaway man in flight.