Night Prose VI

In the all illusive isles of allusion
illusions ale the torid
man, calling him to the wild 
to the falling tides and in the spring of life
his heart to find..or..
or to grow tepid, to pay his tithe
to cross the toll
to Narrow his eyes
"meanwhiles" fill the cracks in the foundation of his soul
Minding the signs, he is
Outwardly intrepid, but inwardly
un-reflective. He'll soon join the ranks of the collective
undecided paying thanks to the deceptive
He is, but a meme it seems
a sordid series of severed dreams
Cut his inculcated mind,
slowly the sword levies
time against the breast becoming heavy
and inundated