What is relevant?
Am I?
The guardian of my world and its core?
Defender of my lies and my saline?
Protector of my secrets and my dreams?
Or does my immobile body lie still?
Still as a fallen tree, years after erosion

What is comfortable?
Am I?
With the innocence that I victimize?
With the harvests that I destroy?
With the choices that murmur their doubts?
Or do my bones creak with malaise?
Locked into place like a villain at the end

What is everlasting?
Am I?
With a court of misconceived notions?
My mortality held in question?
The bevy of epithets dispersed in my honor?
Or does the realm erode with every misdeed?
Cracking from the strain of my imprudence

What is fallacious?
Am I?
The sayer of nays from a golden throne?
Baseless breaker of laws and hearts alike?
Miscreant traitor of my own kin?
Or is this truth aching for the surface?
Like a seedling stretching out for the sun