the chalice itself had called upon me,
and i brought the poison
which i had poured for myself,
hoping for relief and understanding -
to my lips. they ached
with unrequited apologies
and a curse of madness,
there since my first dawn,
if only i hadn’t decided
to conjure up my doubtful spirit,
and its counterparts -
riddled with doubt and arrogance,
and silent agony -
perhaps i wouldn’t be me anymore.
at first, the venom pleased my taste buds,
fulfilling my curiosity for those thoughts
but inevitable interest.
if only i’d switched my mind off-
and felt truly present and unfazed-
when infusing the mixture with
all sorts of tempting parts:
dark berries and such…
perhaps if i hadn’t thought so much,
i’d taste the poison as it is.
damaging and threatening
as i accommodated my vision
but i’d built a strong idea within myself.
fell in love with an idea of the poison,
swam in it like nothing mattered.
formulated it, dishonest with myself
and everyone else.
dissociated myself from everything i once knew,
just for a taste.
i leapt away from my own values
towards the ocean, whose waves
understood my undulating self-image.
i write now, in critical condition,
having realised: my solutions
are all the more powerful,
when i pour the problem myself