It is a strange niche wresting whatever balance is
left in your sagacity - sane views want to suggest
you’re not alone - tho it’d be the better of best for
for whatever comes t’ be freed taints of humanity;
Insistent guardian angels will resist the plea you’ll
make in lieu of who’s the culprit - yep, it is you, &
there’s no denying the regency; truth will not play
a Catch-22-riven-space to disappear into, empty
And without trace, maybe; but that, too, is whom
you’ve become - and at least we are agreed; so I
relieve you of th’ responsibility to make martyr of
yourself, & what a farcical, tho rat’s-arse, epithet
It’d be anyway; thus you are liberated to express
what it is that makes the niche your hiding place
where brains matter more than sanity suggests -
but then it’s the way you were given to believe…
© 16 November 2017, I. D. Carswell
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