Left to beyond no measure,
Whimsical musings,
Dancing in circles and refusing,
My pleas of requesting,
A resting.
I ponder my rusing,
And in taking in my self
To task, seeking,
Find my self back at the
Beginning of a circle of fire,
And start the chasing
Of my tail, biting and snapping,
At the ever fresh, and yet
The ever age old desire
Of finding a meaning,
In this exhaustive "Being."
Depletive searching in internal psyche,
Has revealed childhood wish,
"I want my {now and forever, gone}
First bike."
I seek from my soul,
The days of old.
Tears could well in my eyes,
And I could dispense with good cry,
Relieving tension, sobbing,
Blubbering, gaining no ground,
Blaming something else,
For my "Being" an unimportant, Noun.
Silence, solitude,
Both be embraced,
Openly faced,
Greeted with disdain, and, accepting the pain
Of ingratitude.
Enjoying the largesse of its employ,
{By imagining it a mind game},
A happy ending with no story.
They could be,
By my choice, a friend, yes,
Or a foe,
Banal, dime a dozen misgivings,
Away from the clamor,
The din of hustle and bustle,
A welcome respite,
For my "Being" an unimportant, Noun.
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