Self-Analysis

 

 

Just when you decide

you’ve got it sorted out,
your psychic waters rise –
and suddenly
you can’t afford to field
your speculative doubt –

or wield meticulous surmise:

bold cognitive
foundations now are cold
and wet and getting colder,
wetter – nothing’s getting
better: all is heavily

becoming mud. Soon

the apparatus of your
delicate calamities
will soak it up like blood.
Dumb thickness will replace
your fascinating sickness.

You’ll blink instead

of think. Some blundering
amorphousness
will steal your evanescence
like a thuggish thief.
Oh, the relief!







.