I sometimes wish I wasn't such an ardent adherent to rationality,
so I could believe the universe truly has it out for me,
but I know the world gives no thought to my shattered dreams.
My bruised essence is a symptom of my own disease.

This callous ellipse will continue to spin, twist, and turn,
unyielding to my protests, unrepentant for my burns.
I sit at strict attention, though there is no lesson to be learned.
I inhale endless ashes, searching for meaning in an urn.

Some see spirits, for better or worse,
but the first time I ate mushrooms, I up and left the Church.
Yes, I once reveled in fairy-tales of the absurd,
until my mind saw the pellicle-like nature of the Word.

If I could turn around and rewrite my story, would I?
Is it better to be alone with truth, or sit at the joyous table of lies?
The truth is, it was never something for me to decide.
That part of me once lived, but like all life, it had to die.