Apeiron

Mother said I was born with the Lord’s favour.
I say he cut me with Occam’s razor.
It could all be so simple, but it’s not.
Simplicity in life often slips the knot.
'I should be' conflated with 'I am not’.
Fickle forms of fervour filled forays.
Cyclical storms to serve stilled days.
Cynical thorns deserve chilled similes.
Recovering pragmatic addict.
Callous fingers hold the world like Atlas.
Where do I stand? For where I stand
- is where I shall fall and in the fall
- our wandering winter chills do call.
Can I see through it all? All of you.
I see behind your eyes, the yearning.
The wish to be free. Peace of our kind.
Do I stand in quicksand?
Racing around me, a truth so slant.
I’d ask you to tell me, but I’d prefer your volition to be selfless.
Mind adrift, time amiss, times I’ve missed.

The mystery of it is hard to sift.
The pain of watching my joy fade.
Aging faster than I ever imagined.
What will I do when you are gone?
You are understanding itself.
Will my sanity leave at your departure?
You, who I shall never bend truth for.
You who told me to be more honest.
So I was. Now in two minds
Will I kill this affection and revert back to old sentiments?
Or acknowledge it and see what part of myself I may find.
Two minds, two roads, too many options. Wanton pieces of me diverged. Everybody wants a piece.
My body, my mind or my soliloquies.
Too much and still not enough
Apeiron.