W A Y I N is W A Y O U T
In the sandless, landless tract of the mind
there is no stitch to hold and bind.
Everything from core to pore is scarry
can the benighted sky be starry?
Passions purged and spent
what has life lent?
Is it all rave and rant
where succour is scant?
When scars spider within, without
is the ladder of hope, some wayout?
YES, this Winterland maybe Lustreland
if one chooses love-peace strand.