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 ....