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Manifold Lens

de Mizmor

I swallow my own medicine in hopes of sadness curved
I can't say it does nothing
But wish it were more potent
My words rebound and mock me
What seems to be the issue?

I know it is a cycle
Acceptance is my name
And still I tire of visits from this most unwelcome guest
I feel it in my stomach
It spreads throughout my chest

What is it though but energy
And why should it be bad?
How does surrender differ from complacency?
To strive and be content at once
That staggering enigma
To embrace the orbit of depression

Yet not desire its presence
To be still in its return
Yet seek to heal all the same
There's nothing left to say
The hypocrite writes

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