The order of things, of everything,
Is unclear in the mess of paper
On the huge desk in front of him.
Putting all these memories into
Some kind of chronology scares
Him into inaction, so he just sits
There and stares at the chaos of
His past. What he really wants
Is to find that specific sequence,
That juncture, where time went
Awry all of a sudden, and fame
And focus deserted him. It would
Be easy to blame love or children,
But he knows it’s something deeper
Yet more trivial than that. In
The end, he just sets fire to it all;
The paper, the desk, the doubt,
And returns to living.
R 08/09/2023 15:04
The order of things is unclear.
Pulling it apart with science
Takes away what matters.
Love is not just a sequence
Of chemical interactions,
Nor the exchange of bodily
Fluids, not simply biology.
To dissect emotion like that
Demeans the holiness of living.
R 08/09/2023 17:50