Funny how all of this pain is reducible,
enough to fit within this crucible,
fit within this insulated space,
where I put all that I cannot face.
Kept here, safely here inside,
where all my misery may hide,
always so properly then contained,
while all introspection is abstained.
Until the time finally comes,
when my life once again plumbs—
lines up the way that it should,
triaging the bad for all its good.
For all of this existential pressure
is nothing more than a thresher,
beating upon my peace of mind,
blocks every pleasure I do find.
Yet it so perfectly then reveals
how all my strength so congeals,
how the person I have become
is more than just the total sum.
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Author:
Libellule (
Offline) - Published: June 10th, 2025 09:32
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments2
Here is the seed of gestalt and the bloom of being. Nicely presented in poetic form well done.
Great write
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