My best shot
is marginally better than a blank
if I close my eyes
and count to infinity,
because when just the wrong Someone
looks at me in just the right way
all my controlling intentions
end a tight shaky knot of nothing
and ruined game of cat's cradle.

I am learning curves and angles,
projecting an intricate arc
that melds flesh and earth
in a singular synchronized reflex;
right draws lines before my eyes
while wrong is close behind, tracing
avenues of exploration, crossing lines
to draw me, stretch me, strand me;
I am strung out and acutely poised
between Arcadia and anarchy.

It is just the right amount of discomfort
for me to thrive in,
all else failing.
I have landed myself at the end of a line
of nostalgia and a lane that used to lead
to one of those wrong Someones.

Now I ponder
the road and the mess in my hands:
What happened to you?
Where did I go?
And why string, of all things?

As these thoughts tangle
and tease, I wonder whether all roads
lead to ruin, or merely conspire
to leave me in the middle
of someone else's Nowhere, a state
in which questions repeat themselves
and responses are stimulus-driven.

Perhaps I will come to realize
that this exquisite mess
is out of my hands.

Supposing I could bring my sticky fingers to
fling it to the ground before me,
with all it represents,
and walk away?
We all know by now, my addiction is
to inner turmoil, torture and torment.
This very thread reincarnated
would only slither its sultry self back into my hands.

And I am left holding the empty cradle,
rocking myself to infancy, banished
to a hard place delivered
by a blank face reflected
in a sterile slate.

Is this my reward
for failing to believe
in karma?

02/16/2016

Author's Note: Ms. Doom always makes my mind run to keep up and dig deep. A pleasure, as it always has been.

Posted on 02/17/2016
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