The Thinker

Sitting awkwardly
with your right elbow
upon your left knee,
your head resting on your fist.
Your body twisted:
A mound of marble,
you sit.
Fixed to false ideals,
you think.
You think,
and you think,
and you think.
Too much thinking
tempts the mind
to the point that
Action is paralyzed
and incapable of searching
for real connections.
But you think.
Not critically or civilized;
You think savagely.
No care for understanding.
No care for whys or hows.
Happy to rest in fragments
content in bowing down
to the idols and spectral
froms that allure the mind
into false paths.
So focused on these statues,
your own statue
that nothing (not reason,
not evidence) can shake you
from your fixed worship.
Thou shalt not profane, touch,
or question the idols of thought.
So powerful are these idols
that no authority can persuade.
You remain affixed in your gaze
to their luster.
Closed.                Closed.
So closed that action:
active, persistent, and
careful consideration of
any belief of knowledge
is impossible.
No evaluation of past mistakes,
no sensitivity to problems
and finding solutions.
No exploration or testing.
No trying or figuring.
No desire for a full experience.
The experience that elevates us.
Raises us above instinct
and appetite and routine
and animal.
The experience that sets us free;
Makes us human.
But you in your suspended state
have sunk: far, far below.
Less than animal even;
You are stone.
Bound to error.
Mounted to false ways of thinking.
Enslaved.
Dead weight.

Purged

Your effect was toxic
Poison slowly seeping through my skin
with every smile, every touch
until suddenly I was infected.
I was choking, but didn't notice
until you were gone
and the sedated euphoria that kept me
in a state of suspended bliss was gone too.
I left you. I tried to rid myself of you.
But the poison remained,
Cancerous, it clung to every cell spreading
and the choking began.
I tried to get you out:
coughing, heaving, purging, convulsing
But your poison was too strong
and the more I convulsed, the more I choked
gagged
Like thick syrup coated my throat and
all my insides squeezing, suffocating every
particle of true life out of them
Leaving them (me) a barren wasteland of misery
How could I have been so blind?
Why was I won over into thinking it "could work."
Your venom took over.
And I let it, but didn't know it
Until I was debased--hollow
And then it was too late
And now I need the antidote.



And then the days pass, and I think you're gone
that I'm completely purged of the toxin you left inside me
But then the choking comes again and the convulsing returns
And I wonder if you'll ever be out really.

The golden forsythia
blooms.
Bursting forth,
it welcomes
the Spring with
promises of hope
and life and
all things new.
But its brilliance
and all of its promises
are overshadowed by
the cold and dreary
gray. The winter
that persists;
Withering
the promises of
spring.