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I saw myself upon a lonely road— Night fell, and cold winds stirred. Like a soldier taking the night watch, I wandered the wild in silence. Fair enough, they say: “You must be a man.” But what of it? Do not heroes fall sometimes? Even lions miss their prey. Yet I am heavy-laden By the thoughts that live in my head. Two voices speak to me— Which shall I obey? One whispers hope, Though it sounds like a fairy tale. The other bids me fall— And perhaps he speaks the truth. For I have lost. But must I stop now? When the void gives no answers, And darkness hides its reasons? Each day, I hold my pen— Its ink, my bleeding soul. I wish I could stain my spirit With the very words I write. My mind finds no rest, My heart is full of storms. A hurricane rages within me, And I long for the Watchers To take me home— To bury me beneath the old, cold stone. Friends are gone. The bride? I can no longer trace her path. And still the question echoes in my mind: Can I still be the hero? Can I still sing the songs Of kings who once conquered? I look around— And each man walks his own road. No one cares where I go, Or what I’m becoming. The Storm in My Mind (continued) By Bismark Finley Now even I— Am a stranger in my own thoughts. Where to heed? To light? Or fall, like a star whose name I know not? "Hey, you two," I shout into the void. "Why quarrel in my mind? You know the burn is too great— Go argue with a stronger man. I find no joy in your counsel." Perhaps… you are right. If I stop— The world dies. But how can I be a hero for zeros When the zeros fight against the very fire I burn? They heap burdens on my path, They see not what I carry. So I ask, Should I die for the one who starved me? Or for the one who chases gold In the streets of Vanity Fair? And what reward will be my heir? I ask— Softly. Subtly. As if heaven might whisper back. Don’t scorn me when I say: Evil is good, and good is evil— That’s where my mind now lives. Pleasure sings. Gold glitters. And I—I could taste any woman I wish. And Death? I mock him. My sweet days are full, And my dark days hold no guilt. What would you do in my place? Would you run to the path of light? Can a leopard trade its skin for a lion's? Can a black man become white? I say— This world is not fair. My own king has despised me. Now I dwell among strangers, Feeding on crumbs from the table of the rich. My spirit… A faint shimmer Still fights to rekindle your words in me. But I ask again— What is a hero? And to you— The voice who fills my soul with ashes, Perhaps you speak true: I am no hero. I see the beautiful women And the shimmer of the high places. I want my seat among them. But you— You speak only of light. No wisdom of the shadows. Isn’t every path a blend of dusk and dawn? I cling to the flicker in my chest— Yet even it rejects your purity. Still, I try to follow your thread, Though my soul recoils. Will I be a hero for the zeros? Perhaps. But my mind is aflame. Each voice pulls me by a different chain. Can you show me The evil days ahead? The storms hiding behind each dream? For the world within my thoughts Is no safe place. It rages like a sea No man can calm. And now— I look toward death. Let it come without enchantment or spell. For in the end, There is no middle man. It is either me— Or nothing.

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The storm in my mind

I saw myself upon a lonely road— Night fell, and cold winds stirred. Like a soldier taking the night watch, I wandered the wild in silence. Fair enough, they say: “You must be a man.” But what of it? Do not heroes fall sometimes? Even lions miss their prey. Yet I am heavy-laden By the thoughts that live in my head. Two voices speak to me— Which shall I obey? One whispers hope, Though it sounds like a fairy tale. The other bids me fall— And perhaps he speaks the truth. For I have lost. But must I stop now? When the void gives no answers, And darkness hides its reasons? Each day, I hold my pen— Its ink, my bleeding soul. I wish I could stain my spirit With the very words I write. My mind finds no rest, My heart is full of storms. A hurricane rages within me, And I long for the Watchers To take me home— To bury me beneath the old, cold stone. Friends are gone. The bride? I can no longer trace her path. And still the question echoes in my mind: Can I still be the hero? Can I still sing the songs Of kings who once conquered? I look around— And each man walks his own road. No one cares where I go, Or what I’m becoming. The Storm in My Mind (continued) By Bismark Finley Now even I— Am a stranger in my own thoughts. Where to heed? To light? Or fall, like a star whose name I know not? "Hey, you two," I shout into the void. "Why quarrel in my mind? You know the burn is too great— Go argue with a stronger man. I find no joy in your counsel." Perhaps… you are right. If I stop— The world dies. But how can I be a hero for zeros When the zeros fight against the very fire I burn? They heap burdens on my path, They see not what I carry. So I ask, Should I die for the one who starved me? Or for the one who chases gold In the streets of Vanity Fair? And what reward will be my heir? I ask— Softly. Subtly. As if heaven might whisper back. Don’t scorn me when I say: Evil is good, and good is evil— That’s where my mind now lives. Pleasure sings. Gold glitters. And I—I could taste any woman I wish. And Death? I mock him. My sweet days are full, And my dark days hold no guilt. What would you do in my place? Would you run to the path of light? Can a leopard trade its skin for a lion's? Can a black man become white? I say— This world is not fair. My own king has despised me. Now I dwell among strangers, Feeding on crumbs from the table of the rich. My spirit… A faint shimmer Still fights to rekindle your words in me. But I ask again— What is a hero? And to you— The voice who fills my soul with ashes, Perhaps you speak true: I am no hero. I see the beautiful women And the shimmer of the high places. I want my seat among them. But you— You speak only of light. No wisdom of the shadows. Isn’t every path a blend of dusk and dawn? I cling to the flicker in my chest— Yet even it rejects your purity. Still, I try to follow your thread, Though my soul recoils. Will I be a hero for the zeros? Perhaps. But my mind is aflame. Each voice pulls me by a different chain. Can you show me The evil days ahead? The storms hiding behind each dream? For the world within my thoughts Is no safe place. It rages like a sea No man can calm. And now— I look toward death. Let it come without enchantment or spell. For in the end, There is no middle man. It is either me— Or nothing.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things