Auto Pilot

It brews within me

tyrannical, multi-sided, bitter.

I am made useless

whether in denial or acknowledgement.

I sip the poison in hopes of immunity

and I am made to die by degrees.

One day, I think, I will be very happy.

Meanwhile I will surrender

to this most grievous war,

a soldier in my own right,

a man by measure.

Suffering is relative

therefore we are all susceptible

to its pangs.

I have too much love

but how can I part with any of it?

Even the idea hurts.

What a terrible thing to pass through life

without the benefit of a remembrance.

All is subject to the absent-mindedness of habit.

Everything loved forms a groove

into which it is held securely

albeit without the benefit

of our grateful attentions.