(The things I ask of myself while sitting in the dark)

I shoulder the borders of everything . . .
of the nothingness trapped inside the air . . . is Atlas crushed ?

All the holy mole of mountains that I've stumbled over , am I saying I never really cared ?

The indentations of life ,
the craters that I plunge carelessly into . . . can I crawl my way back out ?

That sentence in the book of life ignored returns , was it just to haunt me . . .
or is it a reaping of the sorrow that I chose to sew ?

A toxic attitude , from the grapes of wrath , has it aged well in the bottles of time  . . . do I keep drinking up the past ?

Twisting around it's not the worthy that I find

Yet . . .

A finite year of imperfection it surely was
that indeed .