My Seldom Release

Tonight as many before and many beyond, I sit.
Residual in my prison, which longs to be free as was.
Time and time again calls, for hope it beckons.
As a wayward one I do heed and treat it,
and how doth it entertain such disappointment?
In a shroud of confusion it swells,
dark and even as its cells, closing in on me.
My lone doxology is drowned by my solitaire. 
My torment of distance, I by thee are ensnared,
lashing out, screaming inside my mind so shear.
Omnipotent awe dawns upon, this man said as I,
of the power over the physical being, final, undeniable. 
Yet who am I, this dismal mark in the world, to question?
To debate what is? For what is will be as it retains,
a lingering shred of an old breed left heavy in the wake of history.
Yet history alone will write the future.
A lack of penitence feeds the declivitous slopes
that exceed into darkness, unsubtle, unrelenting.
Within the halls yet do reside an unknown will.
A will of fuel unbeknown, and a motor writing in blaze.
A treachery to the pessimist, inflicted scourge of mind.
Thoughts bent on the unknown and the longing to see,
a path made certain, and lain aground before thee,
a direction of vigil truth, secured so at a cost,
therein lies sanity and at the price lost.
Yet how can a soul inherit such a capsule?
To surrender it's unseeming presence, twisted upon a foc'sle.
Such a distant share upon which such thoughts do crash
and upon another in a perpetual cycle.
The nature of a man, in it's untamed hubris
leaves forces lest wondering the told insight
and forged in the lessons of steel,
still clarified by hand and pen...