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.

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2 thoughts on “Auto Pilot

  1. The title, then verse made me think of the black recording boxes on planes… and yet sometimes even those recordings are lost…
    So all we can do is soldier on…

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