Depression (Iteration 5)

You see, I just don't think I am built for this
Something about the stitching of my atoms
Doesn't seem to fit right, in the grand tapestry
I am of a way that perplexes even myself
A way that crisscrosses over itself in a peculiar
Manner; contradicting itself, redefining itself
And the voice, inside the void, made of obsidian walls
It does not stop—incessant burrowing and twisting
Feelings that come on like gravitational waves

And how is a universe supposed to exist inside one
Much greater than himself? Or to exist amongst the
Hundreds of others that he comes across?
The World that crashes into worlds and leads to a
caustic reverberation that shatters the glass of being

One—it is the vile curse of One. One is the sole
pole that flies the flag of comprehension, which itself
misleads itself in the air, in the sky, in the flight of I

What for is the turning of the mind unyielding?
I think we are things of no mass, of no direction
I think that it is that we think far too much
I try and I think I try too much; a kindling much
too ambitious and much too hopeful of its end

M.M.

At some point during the turn of the world
I lost my voice, the breath of fire that I had inhaled
and exhaled as naturally as the beating of my mercurial
heart. Once I would call to the winds of future and smile at
their response. But somehow I forgot how to sing the
song, the song that I taught myself in the dark, in the void,
in the infinite pressure of my own unquiet mind. Bravery,
ambition, defiance, Promethean will: all these, they were
my voice, my song. But now lost somewhere, along the
revolutions of the world, along the incessant pacing of life.

M.M.

From nothing we came

From nothing we came, to nothing we shall return
Or so they say
But what of the lightning and fire of the in-between
What of the immensity of mind, the infinity of possibility?
The labyrinthine perplexity of the love that expands us?
We are the everything in the nothingness of the universe

M.M.