An inner conflict was brewing in the brain of this Regal Man.
Snap shots of his world come and go,
having lost time as his memento.

He never missed the most important meeting
on his calendar each day,
same as planned.

His insipid body,
a vehicle driven by the same shiny things
that attract barracudas.

A papercut on his tongue
from licking an envelope,
was a microscopic distraction.

Yearning for a momentary state of bliss,
it was time for his sinuous routine
to get on with the show.

The *****,
induced a memory of his stoicism,
brought back to life as an afterglow.

Disparate cynics cannot fathom these deepest of depths.  
Man can’t choose his D.N.A.
like he can nomenclature.

Be blessed you are immune child
and take a deep breath.
Habits may be hard to swallow by some;
no plethora of education.
As much of a paradox as this may be,
the pursuit of this dance is not feeling like death.

Knowing that every cylindrical spin of the pistol
can determine the future.
Indulging in an appetite of chaos, will be sure to obscure.

Only hours
before the celebration that gives thanks to our last Harvest,
A quandary, this time was stewing in this stoic man’s galaxy.

On his left shoulder was a badger,
putting his life to THE TEST.
To his right was an angel,
her relentless pleas dismissed.

Like being beset in quicksand,
he dreamed that option was best.
A thought went through his head but vanished like a wave at sea.
Licking his fingers to feel the wind he sang out,
“Memeto- Mori”. (Remember Your Death)