Mediation

In this voice, you hear
my understanding waver,
my resolve unravel,
a shredded temper,
some listless ordure I made,
fall to these feet
I used to call mine.

Deceived, I believed,
spun my sycamore paper
reliving a solid nether
in passing, in angst
anticipating the blades
to be hit by squat
and drown in the mess of waste.

Yet time's not a reaper,
governed by no sickle;
life's already been made,
my decisions made fickle
along with what I thought
was needed to complete
this day.

I realise, least I think I do,
hurt's a game, a spawn
torn from a puddle in a cup
and all I've got is wrong,
more or less of it, enough;
I part too many times once
with what I had in mind.