I dwell in a vacuum of wavering quietism,
in the absence of silence— a void without clamor.
I’m familiar with despair,
and even though it’s a nascent feeling,
I’ve known it long.
Now, heedless, contemplation has become a luxury
a bourgeoisie indulgence—
caviar for my paleteless soul.
And I’ve forgotten how to smile,
only as an infant would forget the
supple breast that cradled and fed it.
And humor, the lack of it
has cradled and fed me,
a reproach I find unbecoming.
In my solidarity, I find ignominious isolation
Of purpose and of self—
But by and by what is purpose?
what is self?
what be the crises of either?
And what be their redemption—
(A deficiency of self and a vacuum of purpose)
Shall it pass like grey tomes of bereavement
that neither shall receive redemption?
Shall it be that its own perception
breeds into another, could it be that the disquiet
be all the way through endearing—
In its fortitude of angst?
That in itself—forlorn
The very reality we deny—
Abhor as cliché, be inescapable?
Be nothing more than metaphor?