Instincts...

I'm not figurative. It's an impossible truth.
Life seems to have put itself into a question
When it built around it's soul, ruthlessly,
A mind of an abnormal stature. There exists
Of sorts all, caricatures teasing its presence.
The state of being and living,
With unformed and enclosed instincts,
Off from reality, far from perception
Is no more than to live with no instinct,
Like a dead being lying with no senses
That ever reflex. How mind forms the awareness,
Feels it, lives in and with it,
And with only it's bound expanse
In a world with not a feel for reality in entirety
Is insubstantial, to form and forever continue.
Robbed of the power, this flail feeling forces
Into a dissatisfaction. Fears that life may end
With not a completion, with not fulfillment
Seems to have conquered the able thoughts.
Pray I not for pleasures of the world
But a way, the puissance to peep into
A window verisimilar. Pray not to end this way,
In the veneer Of living, living like dying.