My ill-filled mind adrift on winds ethereal,
Hopeless, I muse on my own burial.
I dug six feet in foreign lands immemorial,
As ruminations run wild, rabid, and feral.

Imprisoned self, reborn as antisocial,
Past cohorts are now strangers, fantasmal.
Depressing illusions intensify suicidal,
Knocking on doors of the heavenly celestial.
Yet kneeling at the pulpit feels nothing special.

Words misunderstood, deemed uncolloquial,
Unbothered to learn, It's deemed impractical.
Learning the language they use in their imperial,
To make my plea resound consequential.

𝒩𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓂𝓎 𝓅𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝒹𝓈 𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒶𝓁!

"𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒌! 𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒆,
𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆.
𝑻𝒉𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆.
𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒍𝒆' 𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒔, 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒆.

𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍?
𝑨 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒚 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒍.
𝑫𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓?
𝑶𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓?"

For endless ages, I wait in vain,
Enduring this stone-hearted disdain.
Forsaken and lost, your silence profane—
An eternal ache, my solitary refrain.

the phone - it calls:
my impulse crawls
back to the moment ‘twas
mighty, and strong;

the tv on the drywall -
knows how to stall -
my mind from its prime;
my body from a shawl --

i feel my palms
so cold - and remote:  
the channel shows
a woman in a fur coat;
she looks so sad -
with all she has;
she quits on love,
doesn’t leave a note.

i turn to music;
tune to the rhymes -
my sorrows of the day;
i buy some time:
debt looms over -
menacing, by the day;
volume seeks heed -
i cannot pay.

done for the day,
i put the phone down;  
the screens go dark -
make me look like a clown.
i cannot keep tabs on
on all my regrets, so -
i force the ******* laptop
to shut down.

there’s a great divide -
between the anatomy of my brain,
and the fluidity of my mind;
i struggle to make the crossover,
for i must advance in phases
in between their flimsy makeovers:
in, and out -
then back in again.
the brain is humbled by its own mortality;
the mind boasts of an eternal life;
both petrified by rancid thoughts
of yesterday -
and the day before that -
and the month before that -
and the years before…

as i regress -
slowly, and infinitely -
i long for my natal mind,
and a tougher cranium.

not quite the beginning
but not the conclusive ending
there is no dramatic sadness
nor joyful champions

this is the hedges of the story
not included in the final manuscript
left out and scratched off
for this is neither interesting nor satisfying

For I have always
sought to shun the alleys
where my shadows stretch too high,
ever hesitant to linger on
dialogs without outcomes,
too tangled and far-reaching,
for I foresee the fall of me,
and how the quicksand
born of thoughts ensnares me,
crippling, pleading for mercy.
I have been sprinting for far too long,
haunted by the specter of what
I will not be,
or for what I mould me to be
for I am not
what you perceive me to be.

A hundred thousand years ago,
give or take a month,
an epic poem started strongly
with a clever grunt.

Then stanza 2,
an urgent cry.

Now all we hear is,
Who am I?