In my thorax a throbbing beats
for what it lacks. Is a reason
necessary? Maybe the leaves just love
the sun and nickles love to spend.

Justification of a mystic act
is a damnable endeavor
and faith is blind so she can't see
empty matchbooks who believe they weren't
made to burn. The stillborn is
the most sensible but such efficiency
is grim as a reaper threshing flesh.

This is a life seldom involving logic,
at least logic in the usual terms.

Life's logic is more difficult to learn.