Man is an up-turned Pentagram
of outreaching head, arms, and legs.
By nature he's a telegram,
projecting ghost-world messages
hatched from his microcosmic eggs;
fledglings perched on appendages.

Man's eyes spy symbol-stimuli,
connecting his inner wires;
crystals that shine to blind and lie
or fluid that fills a true mold.
Something always fuels the fire;
What points How the message is told.

Man is an open and splayed hand
reaching to grasp Meaning from space
and under mountains ground to sand.
Objects, ideas yield to touch,
but without roots he feels displaced
when carried by flows, rivers and such.

Man stands as the spokes of a wheel
rolling down the slope of Progress;
speed unrelenting and fate sealed,
his leanings guide the direction.
Nothing allows him to regress;
there's no chance of insurrection.

Man often closes himself in,
figure fixed in magic circle,
eyes closed as the world around spins.
The brave focus and aim their Will
while others wait for miracles.
Nevertheless, the world blurs still.