Worries about worries
sap my strength,
give cause to that dread
in deposits of nothing;
but everything hangs
in the balance,
the delicate balance
of certain doubt.

The transformation
of this soul
is a slow and steady
process, slow and steady
like the rising
of the tide
or the sinking of Venice…

If all collapses
this very hour
what will be left,
what shall the obituary
say of a man
who hasn’t yet discovered
who he is, what he wants
or needs — cannot live

What can be said
of the flux? The chaos,
the flux? What is my
chaos? What is it supposed
to be?

Questions, questions…
and the answers
always change.


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