It is not in the introverted and piceous hour-
When island men wage lonely wars,
Trembling forth, afraid to be alone-
But in the extroverted and brilliant one,
Where I feel most otherworldly and separate;
A sensation of a man, one of many,
But never of many and one.
While the birds, jolly in jovial merriments,
And the children, innocent in inns of play,
And the parents, notwithstanding absences in thought,
Parade on and along at par,
And each such creature, lollygagging in a folly,
Frolicking like the little animals that they are,
Bequeathing - as of obsolete and obstinate
But decidedly delusive sentiments - their worries,
Living a pseudo-life, facades filled with farce,
Ignoring the very verisimilitudes of this end,
I find it difficult to do anything but weep.
For it seems, I am the one and only-
Elite, select, John Calvin's man-
To be given truth in a handshake with God.
He transferred to me the soul of souls;
I have been chosen to live the everyman's burden
So that he be happy, he be fine, and I suffer penance.
I weep for the unknowing bloke, incapacitated to acknowledge
The weeping points necessitated in this life.
He is blind; I am with power of sight.
Masticated on the bins of optimism,
My chewed up remains are pungent with pessimism.
The idea of happiness-
A demonstration rare and hard to authentically find-
Has become gainsay I was quickly forced to accept.
How can I feel any form of elation?
Exult in what nonsense of today,
A remnant of this life that will last
For mere instantaneous pleasure and no more…
In the next moment, nothing, and soon forgotten?
Whether I try with all my might
To halt progression of the clock,
One million years will come and go;
One million years have come and gone
Before me and before even the thought of me.
Some brand me a pundit of life;
I am the sole man speaking fastidious truths
We must live through in these lives;
I am weight-bearer, shouldering the pain.
Another pound allocated to my load,
Back collapse, and shall all feel.