Each path forward fades into uncertainty, much like the mariner adrift on identity’s ocean.

Placeholder image by Midjourney v6

 

Monologue of a Unmoored Mariner

  

 

"I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move."

 – Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

 

 

Adrift in Identity's Ocean

 

I drift on seas of self, a sailor lost,

Tossed on the tides of an identity.

No map, no chart, no sextant, star-embossed,

Can navigate this vast uncertainty.

I am a ship becalmed in my own mind,

A compass needle spinning, unaligned.

 

 

 

The Maelstrom of the World

 

The world's a whirlpool, hungry and immense,

It drags me down, indifferent to my throes.

I spin and spiral, seething and incensed,

As riptides rip, as ruthless currents close.

Like flotsam, I am flung and flailed and hurled,

In the maelstrom of this maddening world.

 

 

 

Echoes Across the Void

 

I send my signals to the careless skies,

I send my semaphores, my flags unfurled.

I send my ciphered screams, my muted cries,

I send my pleas into the salty swirl.

But all dissolve, like foam upon the waves,

Absorbed into the ocean's open graves.

 

 

 

The Weight of Proof

 

A cargo of corroboration rests

Within my hold, a leaden, lading weight.

Stacked file on file, attested truths compressed,

They ballast me against the howling hate.

But barnacles of doubt encrust the hull,

And apathy's an anchor, dragging, dull. 

 

 

 

The Sirens of Despair

 

The sirens sing their songs of swirling black,

Of crushing depths, of comfort in the cold.

They croon of still eternities that slack

The bindings of this world, so worn and old.

To yield, to sink, to slip beneath the foam-

Seems sweet against the harshness of my roam.

 

 

 

The Narrowing of Horizons

 

The ports of hope recede beyond my ken,

The beacons dwindle, guttering and weak.

No lighthouse sweeps its salvatory pen

Across the darkling deeps I cannot speak.

Each way is waves, each wake a weary froth,

A voyage void, a dead-reckoning lost.

 

 

 

The Plummet and the Plume

 

And so, I sound the fathoms of my fate,

I plumb the depths, I cast the weighted line.

To sink seems sweet, to cease the cruel wait,

To be the lead and not the burdened twine.

A swift descent, a fall into the free-

Seems kinder than this crawl through apathy.

 

 

 

Surrender to the Sublime

 

The vastness whispers velvet, voids me on,

Its emptiness an absolution blest.

In yielding to its yawn, its siren song,

I find, at last, the solace of the rest.

To be subsumed, consumed, and so redeemed,

Seems sacred to this sailor lost and seamed.

 

 

 

Peace in the Profundity

 

So let me sink into this softer sea,

This womb of nothingness, this calm embrace.

In drowning, let me drink eternity,

In losing self, let me at last find grace.

For in the crushing depths, there is a balm,

An absolution in oblivion's psalm.

In silent screams, six sides shatter;

Unheard anguish, a voiceless cry;

Broken bonds, trust torn asunder;

Shadows creep where hope runs dry.

Unheard anguish, a voiceless cry;

An unbreakable shape, now unmade;

Shadows creep where hope runs dry;

In darkness, a tortured soul betrayed.

An unbreakable shape, now unmade;

Scars unseen, a secret hell within;

In darkness, a tortured soul betrayed;

Wounded healer, touched by sin.

Scars unseen, a secret hell within;

In silent screams, six sides shatter;

Wounded healer, touched by sin;

Broken bonds, trust torn asunder.

 

In realms where reason's light grows dim,

A mad seer sought to unlock the divine;

With compass, straight-edge and a zealot's whim,

He etched a triangle, a secret sign.

 

A mad seer sought to unlock the divine,

In golden ratios, irrational and pure;

He etched a triangle, a secret sign

Of truths that lesser minds could not endure.

 

In golden ratios, irrational and pure,

One to root phi to phi, a cosmic key

Of truths that lesser minds could not endure—

A sequence forged in sacred geometry.

 

One to root phi to phi, a cosmic key,

With Pythagoras' wisdom intertwined;

A sequence forged in sacred geometry,

In this symbol, the Sublime enshrined.

 

 

With Pythagoras' wisdom intertwined—

Behold! The Kepler Triangle manifest!

In this symbol, the Sublime enshrined:

Beauty's madness and Nature's behest.

 

 

Behold! The Kepler Triangle manifest!

Reveal to mortal eyes your strange design;

Beauty's madness and Nature's behest—

A mad seer sought to unlock the divine.

 

 

Reveal to mortal eyes your strange design,

With compass, straight-edge and a zealot's whim;

In realms where reason's light grows dim,

A geometer's gambit—risk soul and limb.

In sacred geometry, a shape takes flight;

Three points converge, a trinity divine;
Golden ratios whisper, ancient and bright;
A symbol of harmony, a cosmic sign.


Three points converge, a trinity divine;
Angles align, a dance of precision;
A symbol of harmony, a cosmic sign;
In the heart of the universe, a hidden vision.


Angles align, a dance of precision;
Shadows and light paint a mystical seal;
In the heart of the universe, a hidden vision;
Mysteries of creation, silently revealed.


Shadows and light paint a mystical seal;
Golden ratios whisper, ancient and bright;
Mysteries of creation, silently revealed;
In sacred geometry, a shape takes flight.

 

 

 

"Primum non nocere," a principle profound,

 

Not rigid law, but wisdom found.

 

In healing's halls, where choices weigh,

 

It guides the hand, but doesn't sway.

 

 

 

"ὀφελέειν ἢ μὴ βλάπτειν," a balanced plea,

 

"To benefit, or harm not," complexity's key.

 

Not black and white, but shades between,

 

Where modern medicine's challenges are seen.

 

 

The caduceus gleams, oft misunderstood,

 

While Asclepius' staff stands where healing stood.

 

Symbols twisted, meanings blurred,

 

Yet ethical practice remains undeterred.

 

 

In sterile rooms where decisions loom,

 

Doctors and patients dispel the gloom.

 

They weigh the risks, consider gain,

 

In partnership, to ease the pain.

 

 

 

Some peddle falsehoods, sweet and bright,

 

While truth seeks haven in the night.

 

But evidence-based practice stands tall,

 

Against deception's siren call.

 

 

"Primum nil nocere," evolving still,

 

Not perfection, but good faith's will.

 

To strive for best, while harm to shun,

 

In healing's never-ending run.

 

 

 

In research labs and by bedsides true,

 

Ethical minds seek what to do.

 

Through trials tested, with knowledge bright,

 

They pierce the veil of health's long night.

 

 

 

"To benefit, or harm not," the true decree,

 

A beacon burning, for all to see.

 

Not simple maxim, but complex art,

 

Where science meets the human heart.

 

 

With shared trust, respect held high,

 

Patient and healer together try

 

To chart a course through health's dark sea,

 

With ethics as their guiding key.

 

         "Primum non nocere," oft misapplied,

 

Not absolute, but a principle to guide.

 

In Hippocrates' time and modern day,

 

It's context and intent that hold sway.

 

 

 

The Greek, "ὀφελέειν ἢ μὴ βλάπτειν," rings true,

 

"To benefit, or at least do no harm," anew.

 

A nuanced approach, not black and white,

 

Balancing risks in healing's light.

 

 

 

The caduceus twined, with wings so bright,

 

A symbol of commerce, not healing's might.

 

Asclepius' staff, with serpent alone,

 

The true emblem of medicine, long known.

 

 

 

In modern clinics, where science reigns,

 

Ethical practice carefully maintains

 

A balance 'twixt benefit and potential harm,

 

With patient's values central to this charm.

 

 

 

Open communication, a cornerstone strong,

 

Where patient and doctor, together belong.

 

In shared decisions, they navigate

 

The complex paths that health dictate.

 

 

 

Some may twist ethics for selfish gain,

 

But true healers strive to ease pain.

 

With evidence-based practice as their guide,

 

They stand against misinformation's tide.

 

 

 

"To benefit, or at least do no harm," evolves still,

 

Not perfection, but good faith's will.

 

From rigorous study, and trials so keen,

 

True healing emerges, complex yet clean.

 

 

 

In healing's art, there's no guarantee,

 

But ethical practice sets conscience free.

 

With care and skill, and wisdom's light,

 

We navigate health's day and night.

 

 

 

Πρῶτον μὴ βλάπτειν, a principle misunderstood,

 

Not black and white, but shades of good.

 

Where healing's art meets science's light,

 

And ethical minds must choose what's right.

 

 

 

The caduceus gleams, a symbol misconstrued,

 

Where commerce and care are often viewed.

 

But Asclepius' staff, with single snake entwined,

 

Represents true healing, carefully refined.

 

 

 

In modern halls where choices weigh,

 

Doctors and patients find their way.

 

Through risks and benefits, they navigate,

 

Shared understanding they cultivate.

 

 

 

Some peddle cures with hollow claims,

 

Exploiting fears for selfish aims.

 

But true healers, with knowledge sound,

 

On evidence their practice ground.

 

 

 

"Primum nil nocere," a guide, not chain,

 

Encouraging thought in health's domain.

 

Balance sought 'twixt act and pause,

 

For healing's not without its flaws.

 

 

 

In research labs and by bedsides too,

 

Ethical minds seek what is true.

 

Through trials tested, their wisdom grows,

 

A beacon bright as knowledge flows.

 

 

 

ὀφελέειν ἢ μὴ βλάπτειν, the call remains,

 

For those who heal, not those who feign.

 

In partnership with those they treat,

 

They strive to make care more complete.

Desperate defiance in the dark

 

 

Voice vanishing, vaporised by virtual vitriol

Algorithms amplify absence, abandonment

Words once winged now wither, wane

Trauma's tendrils tighten, twist, torment

 

 

Silence. Deafening. Oppressive. Inescapable.

 

 

Childhood's cruel cacophony echoes, endures

Rape's raw rage resurfaces, relentless 

Abuse's ache amplifies, accumulates

Gaslighting's glare grows, guts grace

 

 

A chill wind of indifference swept through the room, leaving me shivering and unseen.

 

 

Neurodivergent narratives, now nullified 

Vestibular vertigo, vision vacillating

Fibrous fire flares, flays fragile flesh

Depression's darkness deepens, devastating

 

 

The empty chair across from me seemed to mock my solitude, 

 

its vacant seat a cruel reminder of my isolation.

 

 

Social streams shrink, shrivelling slowly

Platforms purge purpose, passion, power

Identity invalidated, invisibility impending

Self-worth withers like wilting flower

 

In silence, I found solitude; in solitude, I embraced silence

 

Yet still, soft syllables simmer, survive

Waiting, whispering: "We will rise."

For even silenced, stifled, suppressed

The soul's song softly, surely sighs

 

 

Through the hollow halls, past the empty rooms, 

 

beyond the echoing silence, 

 

a single, defiant voice dared to speak

 

 

In the depths of this suffocating silence, 

A flicker persists, refuses to die. 

Though the world may try to extinguish our light, 

We will rise, reclaim our stolen sky.

 

 

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