Scatterbrain

Like waiting for Godot or Judgment Day,

Pointless.

The thrill of the moment and the apparent sense of forever,

Overexposed.
Unwavering hyperactivity of nothingness,

Meaningless more often than not.
If only there was intent... but, even that would get old soon,
Just the fleeting satisfaction that it brings temporarily.

No, not mere pessimism just bumming around,

Laying about,

Sparingly.

Looking for boundaries perhaps,
Longing to be contained in a model that is unequivocal, ratified,
But what composes such matter?
Does it take a master to distinguish it? Identify it?

Oh teach me this language you speak of,
I do not know it.
I am foreign and it resists me,
Eternally doomed in the fear of the unknown.
How does one come to dread oneself to this extent?

This space?
Some say it could be considered a game,
More so than joy it is Chinese torture.

Chews up all self assurance steadily with angst,

Creeps up on you too.

A mirror is simply not enough.
A sense of becoming that which we are not comes to mind,
So that the essence that births the form dissolves any false ideas,
All illusions.

If only you'd just give in, scatterbrain,
Once everyday, just once everyday.
The lightness which expels you may just show its face.
Let it introduce itself to you,

It just may.

Well, I Have Lost You

Well, I have lost you, and lost you fairly,
In my own way and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.
Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping,
I will confess, but that's permitted me.
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.
If I had loved you less or played you slyly,
I might have held you for a summer more.
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
If I should outlive this anguish, and men do,
I shall have only good to say of you.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay