No relief in the martyr game is to be found.
Pretending things are alright with me, all the while
Subtly signaling horror, I am On The Line
Between dream and reality. Everything’s fine
Even though I’m aware of my blatant denial
Of the peace that betrays me while high off the ground.
Thinking of health and fitness and proper hygiene
Is a most useless exercise in times of strife.
With my nose to the grindstone and steeped in routine
None can notice discomfort. In fact, I’m not seen.
Everyone in their own way responds to this life
With insight and emotion to keep the heart clean.
Taking care of the details in my daily life
With concern for no other may feed my distress.
As the human condition wreaks havoc on souls,
On The Line I tread carefully needless of goals.
My contingent response is a lonely process.
An inscrutable puzzle is dealing with strife.
Improving and perfecting the ease, that I know
Is a part of my essence, may set my heart free
From malignant perceptions. This world and its ways
Are not for me to judge nor to offer my praise.
I can find some relief in just letting it be
As it is and may always be. Then I may grow.