A weekday note something like one in the afternoon

Though it seemed the bottom was it––
a sort of Planck length,
––a smallness one could not surpass,

Here I am

trapped in paradise slowly building up a hell of self-castigation,
Hindenburgesque self-immolation

Unsure grounding blown by the wind;
Thin skin of pride dissolving like tissue paper
encompassing such volume of now burning naïveté.

combustible like nothing else,
overcoming easily the frail resistance

with a frame constructed of nothing but hubris

as insouciance quickly gives way to regretful panic
(the question, “was I ever meant for this world?”
or something of equal dramatic absurdity)

And become burning self-accusation,
sparks falling to the earth
sizzling and smoldering,
the wreckage of inherent guilt.

[Unfinished/half-finished/half Finnish]


About andrewwhiting

A sentimental and sarcastic poet, lover of language, traveling and nature (not a fan of the Oxford comma).
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