I will with equanimity my life
Face, or so says the morning me that still
Perfection dreams, still sequesters the knife
This serrated sun wields. O, how night stills
My manic mind! The churning waters cease
To foam, and that inner voice goes quiet
Like a beehive in hospice, now at peace
With its austere hara-kiri diet.
Yes, in sleep I am who I wish to be
And not some wizened saint’s facsimile
In cracked stone, a waste to humanity;
My skin burns. I grow pallid. I’m not free:
Awake, my disappointment anguish reaps;
O, the self-inflicted wound cuts so deep!
Begun on Wednesday, March 28, 2018 & finished on Sunday, April 1, 2018