Quarry

what do I endeavor to find;

what is my long-sought grail?

it is but this: I hunt for a hunt

pressing through ceaseless gale.

my quarry is motion itself

and so I know I cannot fail;

my only end is to not end

the chasing of my own tail.

I tail each wandering whim

down every rabbit trail,

outpacing trains of thought

on neuron-forgéd rail -

till languid hunter, anxious prey

tear through brushy veil

and see, in me, they are but one-

aimless, omnivorous, frail:

hoping, wasting, loping, tasting -

pressing through ceaseless gale.

but there are mountains deep within

and many a chasmic dale -

land enough to lose myself

in stillness beyond the pale.