What grasp on reality eludes me,
if not my wants in belief,
far less a hold than truth,
and in this I suffer the consequence
of the delusion,
my sorrowed wishes in defeat
of reality’s crystal soul.
Yet still I pursue my wants,
as if they and reality align,
even though flesh bares the scars
of recompense, cold steel recompense,
my stubborn soul,
no power to survive
the stark, pure actuality of mind.
Those whispers that haunt our thoughts,
truths knell in our dark spaces,
strive to warn, to glimpse the breach,
when beliefs guide truth
to tangent signs,
but no relief from our churlish will,
self somehow knows better.
Without ego perhaps,
our potential intellect would rid us
of the cyclic pain of failure,
truth smoothing the bumps
of a road strewn with jagged edges,
and maybe the sorrow of ineptitude
would resound triumphant.
For truth, reality’s pillars of foundation,
would see us ascend to higher thought,
if only we could relieve ourselves
from knowing what we think we know,
and just accepting the ostensible truth,
that needs not our input to exist,
just recognition in respect.
Tony DeLorger © 2017