Picture this, if you will, and never assume
That all that I think of is all that consumes.

Offspring induce so much contemplation
(Devotion, disappointment, delight, consternation)
Their Mother however merits much agitation.
(But that's best left to another conversation)

In-between the daily, mundane, trivial, it's strife,
Repeats
, reoccurs, revisits, alights,
Something that exists, and has for so long
That seems my election and has yet to see dawn.

There can be little dispute that I might of lost count
Of the repeating attacks of shameless self-doubt,
When I realize I must be insane or sublime
In suspecting that love is a
victimless crime.

It's anguish and delight are one and the same
(Inordinate domination in self-imposed pain.)
To lay bare ones soul and surrender ones heart
In hopes another become share and be part.

What might we offer, or hope to gain?
(Look very closely, you'll see I'm deranged.)
For some it confesses a promise and hope
Others concur; its all just a load!

Unfortunately, I see it for what's not usually reveled.
(Which would never matter if I just wouldn't feel.)
But feeling so much, perhaps even too
Erodes at mirages and it's reality that's new.


Can I put it to rest in a traditional slumber,
Or put it to death, and put an end to this blunder?
In costing it's value, it's loss, or it's worth,
What all is removed to make way for the dirge?