I believe my life to be dull and violent
in the same line, where several
planes of existence converge, congruent
at first, then shift with time.
I do not pretend to understand
these mechanisms of mine:
why I perceive not through eyes
but fluid emotions,
and when the actions of others
no longer resemble familiar dynamics,
I turn to accuse them of malicious intentions
when I am not truly sure,
but more what I feel in the ache, and the burn
of the moment.
I am in ruins.
Alas, I will not fall to despair;
I still see some shred of logic in there
where, the motions of mind, however disjointed
still hold the bearings of such graceful equations.