118. Indictment

I do not understand my
gift;
judgement makes all
relative,
relevant.

All seems
bland and
weary.
Child’s enchantments
revealed as
empty.

I am happy though I am
sad
Smiling though I’m
crying;
Callous, wry, and witty
when all I feel is
hurt.

So many disappointments,
so I have learned the game:
I can play too:
let us both
say empty things

only you mean them,
and I invent them.
Quicker the lies are said
that I may retire,
observing how alone I am,
remarking the silent absurdity
of my worthless life
somehow so exalted by my
ego that

it must awake again
each day,
to produce, create;
to hope
and regret.