This poem is loosely influenced by the ideas explored in the poem "Littoral" by Australian poet Gwen Harwood.
Running Out Of Excuses For A Clockwork Routine
Old stories hardened with the crisp memories
of simple structured days. I regret but
can't help but miss those slow hours
that passed in lazy routine. My life had
run like clockwork with the deadlines
and dates to remember why I exist.
Now why would I unconsciously
ask the kinds of torturous questions when
the answers seem so impalpable?
Only now I wonder why I chose this life.
To dress and decorate the inescapable?
To cover the handled door with a blanket
not big enough to hide the edges?
Or embellish what had seemed so
distant and keep my eyes straight at
plain, sanded written answers?
Why are we here? Treason it was said,
blew the reasons or burnt them so to speak.
"Heretics" blackened with ash, temples tarnished
and the simple peasant hung for following the wolf
to the pack. These questions dangerous?
Blasphemy it seems, is constantly screamed
in a voice of groundless fear.
I think I'll vindicate my thirst for what I seek
What we all gather to seek.
The answers are not written. There are no
guides or voice of reason to justify.
We knock on the door of knowledge to be
disappointed that we already know the answer.
The answers is in not what we see,
but in what we will become.
It is the inevitability that we all constantly deny.