I'm not at all certain anymore

well, maybe I never was

Perhaps certainty is a device we forfeit when we see our childhood off

It seems so big and so meaningless

all at once

My masks are old and cracked

the paint is flaking and dull

They no longer fit my worn face quite right

quite right

Eager as ever, though - there's that

It's just that lately all I see is the cancer in things

the slow rot that is eroding vitality

what do I do with that?

I'm not at all certain anyway

I find my musings less (my muse as well)

poignant and rousing

they are echoed frustrations of a wheel

hopelessly mired in mud of its own design

whining in effort - only to further enshrine itself in immobility

am I sad?

I'm not at all certain anyhow

The watchful have abandoned their posts

and the masses meander on as if they hadn't

the uncertainty of the clouds and the rain

like a shackle

anchored to a forgotten premise

or promise

what's the difference?

I'm not at all certain anywhere

The disuse and misuse of my physiology

plays out in measured drones

beat beat beating in my head as it quickens my heart

calling unto itself and its propogation

moreover, laying waste (waist) to the very foundation that supports it

am I blinded by consummation?

I'm not at all certain anytime

Staring at the shell - I queried and quailed

marking the moment I made peace

with the chaos and released the grip on ascendency

and redundancy

the fruition of this reluctancy is cloying

and greying

am I thwarted

I'm not at all certain, anyone?

Copyright:  Brian Pellerino  2009