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Anxiety




Isn't it something
that I will run out of world
and the world will run out of me
at the same time?

What is,
a scant template
tempting what can be.

How much easier it was
when we could conceive that life
was a dream of the dead—
a hard thing to believe,
but a comfort for some it seems.

Delusion as self-preservation?
Now only the dishonest can pretend
there's continuance past the end.

We don't have a clue.
We think we're doing fine, then zugzwang,
we're not even conducting the right investigation.
All these incessant interrograms from the left to the lost!

Trivial experience can seem vital
and remain trivial.

On to the next
as long as you can.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.