for every action defined
there are infinite that remain
utterly unnamed and
are vitally spoken
in whispers on the
pieces never lived.

these incalculably splintering,
passively accumulating,
terrifyingly ungrasped possibilities
compile and cache
and compress and comeback
in the saddest seconds,
where one can merely conject
their meaningfulness,
realizing that there
is infinity in everything
and therefore potential
even in the kinetic.

When I look into the abyss,
Is it just as confused as I?
What does the dark depth ponder,
When it gazes into me?
Am I impossible?
Can it not even
Fathom all my pieces,
Or how they fit?
How cool the wind will blow -
But is the western sand
Still hot when the storm claws at my face
To scratch out my eyes?
Am I a seat to be despised,
Deposed like a future convict
Railing at the charges held over my head?
Why is it judging me
For not playing along with the game I had no part in creating?
I conject no scheme of ill intent.
Peace, I bid Thee well.
I go my way.

were I to merely conject
ills just transribe
but not plan society
in a drama of written verse
but not propose the cause nor solution
in my mind's eye
thereby definition I
with all true thought and admonitions
to my being misguided
take second reason the upper berth
on this waylaid  train
running wild over tracks
through woods runaway
wild verily
ask me anything
I shall proposition you
with causes and admonitions
lay your faults on the parallel tracks
like penelope strapped
awaiting the next freight
as I waltz off swaying
to and fro
certain in my cause and dizzy
destination, a circular straight line I have focused on
that changes day to minute to
second, with my fuzzy
harsh breath I take
and nearly pass out,
certain
to wit I have what to
where I need to hash out and brevity
is not my best attribute,
nor is humility.