by Brandon Martin
What is this?
Now breathing between snapshots of memory.
Ones only system, a wined and dined navigation,
Our subjective minds energy, its sensory dispensary.
(Oh, by the way thanks are in order,
for swerving those tolls ones paid for already)
For this, this is my minds pleasantries.
Perhaps, a preexisting unkinked mystery
Encompassing the mumbling between,
Swathed in skinny-britches, is a soulful ideal
That found its commitment.
Who made this deal?
To this now becoming, my beloved, my sobering,
My required stroll, cuffed to truths cabinet,
A service transpired this venting mission to speak.
Hunting and searching for anything glistening.
To sliding between with a rhyme mystique,
Before time begins, its all but a blinding peak.
This idea of death is held so privately,
Of spoken tone so finalizing, its confusing.
Who spoke on my pre-behalf?
While sustaining this journey, withholding a glistening.
Until finally solving its cease in confiding,
(Humanities unresolved, a constant message, in Cahoots with fear.)
Until resolving its mission.
Until one finally solves these issues created
Evolving by responding without a doubt
Indebted, to this exceptionally rare fascination.
With questions indeed, one that is certain only
For it will never dine with answered truth.
Who am I?
So now one speaks, able to sum up mystery,
With but a simple, aged method of mindset.
Now I must meet this nagging notion...
Could I of scourged a better deal?
My friends, my dear friends, don't you see?
Without irony, we end up dying from life,
All too early,
With mind weak,
And in a hurry