Life as an unfinished page


Memory is indeed
the mind’s own theater
we imagine what is real
To us like momentary savor

but the truth is
our mouth and mind
are citadels of cells
who enjoy to err a bit

for miraculous first bread
and ravishing ornament to sense
meetings and departures stick out
like unsteady castles of subjectivity

and meaning is never easily found
in a fallen debris of time’s broken words
symbols, images, and words
they cannot ripen, cannot finally fulfill?

existence then becomes simulation
living a routine of choice and not-choice
I’m moving through my own corridors
of self and do the same thing

only to maintain a sense of security
but the truth is, I am scared
anger is my fears externalized
fear is my anger internalized

and I don’t mean to be a
chemical resurrection, but what if
biology is all I am today?
a mineral celebration of survival

who can only thrive truly
in this theater I create.

3 thoughts on “Life as an unfinished page

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