But Somehow You Decide

 

Strange, the charge – the larger thrust –

the feeling that you must – the yen to thrive –
the urge to  amplify all senses you’re alive –

strange when they don’t come. Reassurance

shuts you up, and – dumb and deaf to it –
and left to the conundrum of your inanition –

your ambition seems to be less to establish

some new basis to arrive more widely
into consciousness than to retreat to stasis.

Pep talks sound like parakeets. All the sweets

Enthusiasm eats taste bitter in your mouth.
Hope goes south. You sigh. You can’t

say you feel better. But somehow you decide

you don’t feel worse. Perhaps that signals
something like the lifting of a curse.










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