Do you see it?
The days are melting
to form a soup
a soup of days
of distances
of possibilities
of memories
of the rays of light peeking under the dewy leaf
of the colours getting mixed

Do you experience the warmth
of the infinite possibilities
of a freedom that permits
You can quit
You can quit anything, anytime
does the freedom scare you?

Are you acting your part well?
or are you still confused about your role?
do you think your story adds?
do you really think there is anyone buying it?
Are you afraid
of having an overbearing identity
of not being consistent
of not being able to change because you worry too much about being consistent
of not seeing the end of the tunnel
or seeing it a little too soon

Are you haunted by a question?
Or did you lose the question?
Some of us lose faith
They find these enigmatic questions too romantic
they live on
without addressing anything
You’ve lost it too, haven’t you?
It is okay
The far side of the moon is just darker

The ancillary argument is an asclepion which is anaphoric to anathema, anointing anecdotal evidences as an asymptomatic astonishment, assumptive of an averring the verbiage unwavering used to auxesis an auxiliary found aiding the circular back to an autonomy, assuaged in its entirety, appendant to an irony, giving appurtenance to astronomy yet astringent to all company of asters in the wovenry.

  A sweetened ingredient in life’s vermouth, is a lesser known but still common truth, resounding voice a sound so routh and unforgiving of jockeying jocose uncouth but the greatest parts of life we know are sorely wasted on the youth and so fundamental is this truth or verities vivacious muse that some might say we light a fuse when using such verbose abuse that angry are they who find our use an anathema to amuse?

  To wit so that I must abjure the painful notion there is a cure to a playful mind’s language of slur not meant as such but thus obscured the difficulties so inured on my ment-al-lity of thought a crime, a retching twist of someone’s time thus wasted on a poem blurred, a freedom though has just occurred; my mind a paradise, my thoughts a bird...

You wonder why I wrote this po-em,
Think on your life and about your **-eme,
Look back at youth’s wondrous days,
When life was new and full of plays,
And ask yourself is this a maze?