When I Question
When I Question
By Tony DeLorger © 2014
Why do I question my reality,
born of all my beliefs and touched by my own hands,
staring back at me with indignant rage,
doubt an insult to myself.
Having come so far, learned so much,
I stagger, lame from the weakness of indecision,
feeling truth lay within reach but not grasped,
toying with a mind intent on resolution.
Why do I see cracks, inevitable flaws in reality,
when I should bare fruit in my own fashioned life,
yet, life still hides away, an unwilling transparency,
and I, feeling somehow cheated, frustrate.
Glimmers of reality tease a willing heart,
trying to attain the free thinking of preconception,
but the currents are strong, and I am weakened,
trying to follow what I believe is my chosen path.
My thoughts turn to language, I, the scribe of my being,
the teller of tales from the shadows,
the covert designs of the dark players,
and I cower before them, who will distract my conscious mind.
When I question this breath to breath life,
all manner of harm ensues, and my breath becomes shallow,
for the closer I become to truth,
the closer I become to death.
Why do I know myself, recognise this flailing shell of a man,
immersed in life like a helpless, drowning animal,
swept away by the torrents of tumultuous circumstance,
and then reality that whispers to me in dreams.
Forsaken I have been, by my own searching intellect,
the definitive just another illusion of context,
so I must push forward under the weight of my burden,
and delve ever deeper into the depths of me.
No answer comes without first posing the question. No answer was even gained from asking the wrong question.
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