The alarm tolls,
On their rude device-
It's time for work
& yet still, despite
the thousand fascets
of one reality
These
middle-aged
Half-life(s),
These Newbrunswickin Chavs
Wouldn't recognize, really,
That Despite
the riddle's answer, Being E;
& that double decade,
One might have over me,
When direct
Questions
go unanswered; The respect
I require
(now unvield)
Shapeshifts,
Off, into the past
Oh, how I become
The Whip
Ruthlessly;
they crack
The Whip
& with
All that I am,
the past, In desperation, I forcefully trick
As the blackness, of my being
Forms a darkness, spilling thick.
Engulfing light- mind's eye's Unseeing,
Consumes oneself, like a candles wick -
Illuminating every route (for fleeing)
For me, the lights still on- homesick.
Forcefully, faithfully; to keep on believing, & even
just to keep the pathway lit- by headlight, sunbeam, or doomscrolling trip-
Understand why might a human being
'S now become The Whip
Anything is possible and Nothing makes sense
