The 5 a.m. sleepless night rhyme

I look to my left, and I see my world,
A zone of comfort, where I seem unfurled,
At ease with the norms and expectations,
A place where I never seem out of fashion.

To my right, the great unknown,
Where seeds of doubt are too easily sown,
A place that I had been blind to see,
By circumstance of just being too mousy.

Drawn to the right, but happy with the left,
Confusion to the point of certain death,
I can see the joy that lies in store,
But if I submit to impulse, I feel like a whore.

I see examples, and I often wonder,
Whyever not, its not like the world will be torn asunder,
But something always feels out of place,
Like a duck wading around in toxic waste.

I tell myself that these things take time,
It could take years to feel sublime,
But to think of time that has gone to waste,
I can't help but to think that I should make haste.

You are who you are, I've heard that before,
But what if who you are is a bloody bore?
Do you force yourself to get with the hype?
Or do you ignore it and do what you like?

Its really no fun figuring this out,
Too bad I'm too old to sit down and pout,
So I'll rhyme my way to some peace of mind,
And hope that somehow, the stars will align.

To be or not to be.

Wandering the street, the boy looked lost,
Blank faced, he looked, but didn’t see,
He wandered aimlessly, almost stumbling with every step,
His listless eyes wore no expression, refusing to commit.

The person that he was, the person that he is,
The person that he wants to be, and the person he is going to be,
All stand divided, all mirror images,
Similar on the outside, until you read the eyes.

There is little doubt where the fracture came from,
But the question of why has yet to be answered,
The answer might stare him in his face,
But unless acknowledged, it will not register.

The clarity of the past cannot be regained,
The neatly drawn lines have all but faded,
Black and white have tainted one another,
Pleasant simplicity replaced by gnawing self doubt.

His state might be confusing, but not particularly unpleasant,
But for one like him, it must not last,
The options are open, and he may have to choose,
Or perhaps he could sustain them all after all.

Which is it?

The involuntary visits to the stone etchings,
The peals of laughter that echo the caves,
The wafting smells that emerge from hither.
The searing flame that burns inside.

The minutes and hours in contemplation,
The tortured writhing in the middle of the night,
The unlikely fantasies that play in dreams,
The time spent under a blanket, eyes closed but not asleep.

Where do they come from?
The source is unknown and can never be found,
Is it the idea or object that brings forth the trouble?
Is it the concept or prototype that needles the mind?

They say the trickling sand will work its wonders,
That the cycle of hands will mend it all,
But it hasn’t and for good reason,
The missing chapters leave the story untold.

The obsession.

The ironies of life are really quite cruel,
They singe at the soul, and yet remain darkly humourous,
To observe the parallels running in two different lives,
To see and do nothing, for none can be done.

The obsessions run deep, that is plain to see,
Both appear to function, but the signs are everywhere,
A single minded bug that refuses to let go,
In speech, in writing, in choice in life, it manifests.

I knew of my parasite for it is hard to ignore,
But to see it there as well, it’s the funniest thing,
The upturned lip was the first reaction,
What it meant is still rather a mystery.

It could have been an appreciation for twisted divine humour,
Or it could have been hurt, hiding behind a silly façade,
It might have been sadism, for misery loves company,
Or maybe meek surrender to a hopeless cause.

Whatever it was, it needed release,
Hence this prose, this mangled piece of writing,
Hope burns eternal, but I wish it would snuff out,
For your sake and mine, the embers must die.

The Olive Branch

The outposts are new, the timber freshly cut,
Supply wagons arrive still,
Weapons and food, nothing but,
Watchful eyes scan the horizon,
Patrols in armoured skirts walk the hills.

The visit to the Nile yielded nought,
Experated, he returned home,
A war he did not want,
But a war is here, whether he liked it or not.

He had no regrets, no desire to undo,
No change in action would change the reaction,
As much as he regrets being drawn into war,
His conscience is clear, from God he did not fear.

Though antagonized, he will stay his ground,
No javelins have been thrown, no sword yet swung,
And should by miracle, a chance should come,
The olive branch shall be offered, no questions asked.