as I lay here, leaden chest
anxious heart, and restive mind
coalescing, once again
into a guilt so dire with dolor
spurred by ever cunning words
crafted with a master’s eye
tailored to assail the conscience
playing on our gravest doubts
fallout from a life forsaken
fodder for such fickle ends
rearranged into enigmas
safely to remain unnamed
trust, ever our grandest ideal
placed amid danger’s embrace
where vain desire to see such virtue
leaves us to our weakest mercy
without faith to guide endeavor
fate begets foregone conclusion
such befitting ends precluding
all that dare not risk the cost
with no greater stakes existing
chasing something most surreal
peeling back the layers limpid
reveals only fears inured
so it seems a futile foray
without which life holds no meaning
falling into false presumption
lest our lives succumb to truth
[image credit: Gustave Moreau]
Max, or Not 