Something familiar as always,
In the taste of things,
Tart, salty, coppery,
It becomes old,
Yet something comfortable--
--too much comfort,
That it discomfits others,
Leaving behind the grit,
Charred at the edges,
Stuck sharp in the throat.
It is an uneasy swallow to keep down--
--though it rinses the burn, and cleanses some of those shadows in the eye.
But I see them there nonetheless,
And even when I play, I leave a dust behind,
A fog of something uncertain,
Still I find my longing for something warm and shining to be real.
Is this one more thing to revel in?
When there is an illusion of choice,
Is there is an allusion to reason?
Choice, spoken of like a holy grail to polish and protect.
I do not squander it--
--I savor it.
Too much so,
To control it as if it were commodity.
There may be less wisdom in that.