RACE IN THE WIND

What is the beginning of the end? When everything else makes no sense?
Whilst I stir into the wind;
whirling and hurling upon my face.
Reddened by its moist laced with dirt,
the life hastened past me, swift and thorned.
A life through the wind; a memory writhe in such delirium.
What is the beginning?
Aloft with such insatiable lust, puzzled aroud my shallowness.
Gearing towards depravity, commitment left bland.
Again we asked, when will it end?
Thus, it has been the curse burnt of will.
Failing to meet the meted happiness.
It is the devil, may She not cry:
Weakness from filth and dirt all alike.
Passed the rail of the shadow that trail, enthralled in its magnanimity the loftiness of its desire.
Hurling towards the palm loftly placed in the wild, can it withstand such destructive might?
What is the beginning? How do we see the end?
My back aches with the burden of pain, carrying around in shackles of my future past.
Where do we make berth, all that stands is left to drown.
In the beginning; I quest to quiet my flair.
Giving way to the charms and beauty of knowing the same.
Now past the gate, the door stiffens with rust and rot within: my passage laid bare with no path leading to it.
In the beginning; its now or we stir in the rear, to see clear, we blinded our sight of wish.