There are no written ways to arrive at this.
No mark on paper could explain.
No speck would tell a plan fully set.
A bloom of mission— thriving on mental silt,
When rains of ink stain paper, hope wilts.
A squids last stand will halt your mental reign
When you overthink your sentience,
Or when sentiment clouds the goal,
Sediment fills, which only the mind can sift.
For those who write their reach,
Yet lack the kindling of belief,
They will not arrive where they wish.
As for the man who wrote, — now forlorn.