Psycoanaltropic

I think it must move on,
at a pace that's nearing slow.
It all burns so swiftly now,
the dross kindles from below.
Fire, fire, everywhere,
and all is on the brink:
refuge neither here nor there,
it's all about to sink.
Like a bleeding liquid flame,
it harkens from the deep;
it goes without sight or name,
its nights are without sleep.
There's borders so the image holds,
the center, the herald, the focused mass,
and all this, too, shall one day come to pass.


One tries at these things and is never sure of the outcome. I was thinking of making a mix-CD for Budiak, that's where I got the name, and I thought I should pair it with something, a verse of some sort. Guess it was late enough for me to try this. And that's how it happened. Sleep might improve things.