mixed in the midst

it was there waiting for me

elegantly

when i saw it i knew

there is a reason that sonnets have fourteen lines
balance everywhere perceptible and yet from whence violence?

a basic force becomes sick of itself and divides or
a basic duality
materialization with twin, negative, opposite, necessary other, both
removed and looking in from without

i can't help thinking about the futility
who needs this drivel?

surely something more exciting like a detective novel would benefit the world more than these ramblings that refuse to stop pestering me
insist on being inscribed
take up spacetime with so little tangible
immediate value
i agonize
vestigial christiology hovering over existential purposiveness

what? speak up, i can't hear you, you'll have to shout ....