Astute, my deluded mind,
convinced and assured in this life sublime,
convinced of ascension, success and a pension,
when bombs whistle before terminating
the thoughts I’m ruminating,
perhaps my delusions will turn back the time.
I confess I know nothing,
but even nothing has matter
and I’m in a free fall tatter,
my innards are outed, my outer so scarred,
my modicum of knowledge
is by reason now barred.
Yet still I hold onto this delusion of life,
my spirit attuned yet no more to trite,
as I can be, just be, with no moral obligations,
sentient and celibate, with no provocation,
just the spite and ill-will of others,
their problems not mine so conflicted.
So I must know something about being,
for I’m so good at dodging with reason,
and truth does offer this soul a motto,
‘bend and adjust as each season’,
and so I do, and never get flu,
the freedom I know my believing.
Astute my deluded mind,
to at all understand this complex rhyme,
where nothing alludes to truths or in time,
to better the circumstance in which we arrive,
and glean what we may to at least comprehend,
the beginning, the middle and if there’s an end.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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