“The marks humans leave are too often scars,”
I’m far removed from reality; from my thoughts debarred.
Grossly unsettled my heart, frantically seeking a new beginning,
Yet squeamish about sinning.
Trying to find perfection in my imperfections,
Guiding myself into misdirection.
Amid all the subterfuge, endeavoring to make sense of it all,
Demanding myself to have the gall.
But I wonder if questioning the genesis of this disarray and disorder,
Will make me lose myself or make me want to battle harder.
Perhaps it’s best to be stoic; lest perchance it’s comprehensible,
But then again, I realise it’s all transient and abstruse; it’s all dispensable.
“Ay, there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come”;
I ponder over, as I succumb…