Explain in keener detail
Of the whereto from here
The locked in feeling of 'this'.
The Sunday blast strips most noise
Seeking effectiveness on how better to perform
The ablation so strongly desired to break into
Causal Nexus.
The sun dutifully rises, and with it, I roam
Outward and away from the true mark of each day.
I sit with these hands, aware of their tooling
And the constant misuse of their time.
Effort is a driven course with each moment, precisely held
It is my wish to practice excellence, but, up until now
It is only cerebral.
Ingestion of influence has been roasting
Confluence of the other minds that name those I love most
Has taken its fill.
T.S. Eliot, regaled.
I am irascible in my dead quest
Owing nothing to myself, but,
The brunt reality and acknowledgment
That I am the blockade,
The very blockade to my own stagnancy.
Wasteland.
Written and rewritten, chapters on end.
The blueness in my veins now curdling with
The evaporation of time wasted.
The gravel of some, the rumblings in their throats
Scrubbing my insular cortex.
I cannot be what I am not, and,
I cannot further this agenda at the back of my own line.
So,
Jump.
Or be damned by my own complacency, to no end.
