Watching Myself

Another day of toil beneath a slate gray sky

finds a mind altogether divided,

torn between the existentialism of why

and the truths evident within self decided

Thoughts play out in what is now a comfortable rhythm

'I wonder where the truly free people go to in thought; what is heaven?'

Ones time spent searching

a cycle of wonder, regret, insight and delusion.

Shades of love and hate binding all in suffusion

between two by two by two, often mired in confusion

Permeating all thought from sunrise and set

hope, fears, and logic beget:

A constant struggle of the altruistic and sycophantic

shadows of self permeated by both the hierophantic and romantic

All notion so temporary;

even the best of what we build is extemporary

What then are the chances that this is illusion?

Each story after all has a forgone conclusion

Some say the gift of a life unobserved is onerous

and one wonders if the other path, superficial and spurious

would consent in the end to the view of the curious?

Or- are we all similarly ensnared in the egos opprobrious attempt of the vainglorious?

Each day singularly infinite
The mind attempting -almost in jest- to intimate

what lies between the ephemeral and definite:

a stylized self we all in the chase appropriate

Harmony by most unrealized

not only in the way we die, but in the way we dare

each moment frieze'd by times glare

Maybe unremembered, but in eternities echo canonized

Even the meanest mind defines what is seen

though altogether colored by egos sheen

But, in the end, is this not the shape of realities gleam

That, to what each of us seems is
what we deem
the Truth