The heart of me
What is at the heart
Of me,
The center of my being,
The axiom of my soul?
Is there the essence of the
maelstrom,
An ever whirling storm that
Twirls and spins, consuming
All that once was, the spring of hope,
the dying truths left to sputter and fade?
Is it the infinite circle
A beginning an end ever entwined
But never finding it reason,
its purpose,
its cause?
Or is it but a canvas,
Unfinished watercolor splashed upon
The darkened folds of chance
And possibility?
What is at the heart of me,
A conclusion not reached,
a verdict unfound,
a question…..?
Of me,
The center of my being,
The axiom of my soul?
Is there the essence of the
maelstrom,
An ever whirling storm that
Twirls and spins, consuming
All that once was, the spring of hope,
the dying truths left to sputter and fade?
Is it the infinite circle
A beginning an end ever entwined
But never finding it reason,
its purpose,
its cause?
Or is it but a canvas,
Unfinished watercolor splashed upon
The darkened folds of chance
And possibility?
What is at the heart of me,
A conclusion not reached,
a verdict unfound,
a question…..?
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