And now I find myself
filled with derision
for every strand of thought
not in harmony with mine

While consciously aware
that with each passing moment,
albeit with diminishing vitriol,
I am derisive of my own past

But wouldn’t concessions,
no matter how intuitive,
be akin to succumbing to
the mediocrity that comes naturally?

And perhaps a war over axioms
is doomed until we realize
there is no all-knowing, all-powerful, all-present
but only us and our conversations

Once Upon a Time…

Myths and stories seem
The only means that explain yet enable
This madness
This resolute conformity to it

If only the writers knew
The havoc their works would wreck
Would they have shunned their craft?
Or pledged to never stray with words?

Vain strivings
Reason to wonder to myth
Is a journey of elaborate embellishments
And would affect humble beginnings alike

Nobody wants to die for reason
It is not a glorious death