I collect enough dots. Is this why my gut rots
As I work to connect them in meaningful ways?
Might I be a philosopher linking my thoughts
In a way that brings pleasure like winning at slots?
I could learn mathematics the rest of my days
Yet derivative functions are rendered ersatz.
Some would say life is meaningless. Some would say not.
It’s a question of whether or not one has faith
In one’s own fair assessment of all that exists
Despite all contradiction. My outlook insists
On my making some sense of this cumbersome wraith
Of an otherwise haphazard grand master plot.
I must eat my dots slowly so they will digest
Without causing discomfort as they make their way
To the pit of my feeling that my hunch is keen
Wherein logic and insight together are seen
As two sides of the one coin, as night is of day.
I shall keep on connecting. That’s what I do best.