Hubris is human, and monotonous as dirt.
Unable to stifle my thirst for exotica, I
Make an enthusiastic mess of truth—what is truth?—
Asking and answering only what I want,
Nuanced by my normal biases.
Enwombed in the everyday
Natural normalities could be
Truth—a possible treasure I lightly
Hold yet hardly examine, due to its
Usual ubiquities ignored outright.
Such a fool I may be, seeking
In exotic imaginings
After anorexic findings, while
Sleepily stumbling about my mind,
Mumbling foolishly for meaning.
Must meaning be profound?
Or is simplicity a complex oxymoron? Is
Nothing naught but null,
Offering oblivion to the senses?
Touching random truths and half-truths,
Ominously ignoring all other evidences,
Need I encapsulate the numinous?
Yield to reason. The numinous may abhor you.
Am I confused? Confusing? Cursed?
Remaking reason to match my spirit?
Carrying a cancer unaware I may hold the cure—
Arcane as it may be? Annoyed, for its
Nexus is nothing more than smatterings of the
Everyday. Have Imissed some evidence?
Vanquishing the vanishing paradigms,
All convinced by my abilities,
Nothing is needed of the past—those
Imps of my inspiration. Or angels?
Somehow I’m not sure which is what, or how, or why,
Holding to humble rudiments as a drowning man a rope.