As I wax purgatorious thinking I’m right
When my brain functions backwards in so many ways,
Do I make any progress toward reaching my goals?
Why my character takes on so many damned roles
Is a question I’ll ponder the rest of my days.
Nothing of the ethereal is the dark night.
I exist in my own world. I think we all do.
We concern ourselves only with things that we love
Among our inner circles… if we are so blessed.
What I may find of interest is not to the rest.
If my ego feels like it’s been given a shove,
Should I take solace in the fact I have one too?
I would like to be human when I think I’m not,
Yet I know I would have to be one of the whole
Of nature’s fine experiment: creatures who may
Understand with illusion much of what they say.
It takes courage to live well within my own soul
And to know not, nor care that I may be forgot.