Mental Rigours

Mental rigours

At arms length we hold all thought,
still they flood so fast the barrier.
In raging dreams so driven, we’re caught,
are we recipient and or just the carrier.

Mysterious strokes of mental metaphor,
ticking time bombs to normal good sense.
Taste so sweet or foul upon our candour,
giving us the discipline of a self pretence.

Thriving so fast in our being, none is light,
the crushing pains of guilt we all carry.
There all normal thoughts they’ll blight,
even a man with quickest wits can’t parry.

Where is this god that he might relieve,
us mortals of this great pain of doubt.
Or do the priest’s so cleverly deceive,
casting those with mere good sense, out.