Quicksand!

Cluttered foray into the mind,
Slicing away at the vines of design,
Shifting our weight on the diluted sand,
The one bit of safety is your enemy's hand.

Clasped to his digits like so many suckers,
You sip his canteen as your parched lips pucker,
Imbibe that sweet juice of which angels have told,
Of your destruction who could have foretold?

Ragnarokian bliss will embrace you soon,
As the sun gives way in imminent swoon,
And Pan orchestrates but one last tune,
A song to remind us of the old buffoon.

His mind is resigned,
Entangled with twine,
Extracted so fine,
From frost-cut pine.

For simplicity's sake I'll try not to digress,
And stick to the madman wearing a dress,
He smokes on his pipe, he tries on a wig,
The dress is too small and the pipe is too big.

If only there were an excellent opiate,
That he could be endowed before he were to suffocate,
Then in word and in deed,
He would fall to his knees,
And confess all his love and his hate.