" Why, Mr. Anderson, why? Why, why do you do it? Why, why get up? Why keep fighting? Do you believe you're fighting for something, for more than your survival? Can you tell me what it is, do you even know? Is it freedom or truth, perhaps peace - could it be for love? " - Agent Smith, 'The Matrix Revolutions'



My purgatory of the mundane

I bear the cross
of the middle path;
Sometimes I obsess
over the trees, and sometimes
the forest springs into relief,
for me
Have tipped my hat, to the good;
raised toasts to the devil
Drooled over form
and embraced substance
Have not drowned
nor floated - neutrally buoyant,
amidst unquiet waters
Having learned to hold dearly,
I never learned
to hold tightly enough
Longings rise from my heart,
without scraping its bottom.
I soar, but ducked under clouds
Icarus I am not, only
my wings are torched, seared like his.
Having torn down
inner constructs, eagerly,
am restrained
by walls without
I am king, and vagabond
in my imposed prison, fettered
by captive captors
Accursed,
forever denied me the simple joys
of the immoderate