...its dogged insight?

The smaller lines speak softly.
And in a sense, crave more.
In reading the intimate tones of another
I lose myself in the melee...
I owe the unfolding of my own tongue- more due
Than I owe my eyes the ruptured reading of another's woe.

This is my condition - my human condition
With a blistering backlog of all that awaits.
The refluent thoughts serve less purpose
I need to grip the throat of what is to come
And grab instead the grope in the dark
For all the action that lies in wait.

There will come a time when the 'Cease'
Puts a final wrap on all I've eluded to
And nothing more will ever move forward.
Why not then in this Now, don't I hold the hand of Action
And beckon something other than discord,
Into the stoic rib-cage that 'handles' my heart?

This torso of stone becomes restless in its disgust
Mutiny, if it could- to wreak havoc on arms and legs that cave in.
Could the study of trigonometry better equip the triangle,
To angle it more effectively towards purpose?
And wtf is its purpose... its use...its plight...
...its dogged insight?