i know not how to stay its wrath
this ritual of bounden detachment
from everything
and everyone
both to and fro
as sorrow, slow
e’er gathers
at the dawn where wilting petals cease
some prophecies
will self-fulfill
arisen
from roots bound in stone
amid a concrete moment
an imminent decision
of compulsory indignance
unavailed by options present
in the absence of one’s freedom
and if it is
that i cannot be free
to live my life
then so it is
to live
begets me naught
but mere impedance
an imposition
toward a poisoned path
once thought impossible
in ponderance, i sit
deconstructing the illusion
through elusive memories
scattered in bits of truth
and twice retold
as tales of indeliblity failed
through flailing words anachronistic
resigned to a happenstance
of indolent alienation
in the confines of its stoic dissolution
my only hope
hung pendulously
on a rope of tenuous entwine
and time’s aloof refusal
of its merit
as to bear my weight
resolving fate
however late
foregone and long forgotten
Max, or Not 