Temper of Certainty

Sober and trembling grave boredom -
Absorbing and streaking through downwards
Floating fog patches I seek my rusted
Pattern of fever, vice, obsession
Just to fill the time with stale news.
When does the fog moves from here?
Where does the road leads to a refuge?
I fall deeper & deeper 
into an abyss of stereotypy. 
Leaving forever my esprit.
Father, tell me,  do I have to stumble
Over thousands of small uniformities
Or can thou lift me up,
On clouds of joy
And please bring me somewhere else.  
Where not everything yet got named by me.
Where I'm not bored with my questions.
Father or mother,
Speak a little prayer for your lost ones.
I would like to stagger in the storm
A thousand miles from here 
in your lantern light 
in your temper of certainty.