Down.
Down.
Down.
The fetal position.
Voices represent,
rise from the fabric,
I pull at them
like loose threads,
advice from another
state of consciousness.
Stitching together
fantasy, reality and conjecture,
which is which?
Guide me, hold me,
show me something relevant
to treasure, heaven sent.
Invent and repent,
the stories unfold,
is intuition god’s gift
or is it fool’s gold?
Do I derive comfort from
their continued existence
or do I put my faith in
embattled resistance?
Sotto or shout, they point
to a way out, working
through pain like an
equation, giving my
thoughts evaluation, even
false gods can express
a truth although they do
digress and show angles
that proliferate in shadows
that conceal the very
wounds one seeks to heal.
The words that give our
lives a tender touch by
acknowledgement of our
experiences being rough.
In the downward spiral,
those voices have gone viral,
others can hear my mind,
not the equilibrium it
searches to find.
Wisdom or chicanery,
the answers still elude me.
Conclusions are hard to reach,
sometimes true and
sometimes false, guidance
comes at too high a price,
might as well just toss
the dice.
Look inside yourself
and see, to be confused
is to be a part of humanity.
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