How much dirt must I eat,
Before I accept my defeat?
You’d think I’m fond of the beating,
Without a win, without retreating.
A grinder of body and mind.
And through it all what do I find?
I find a way to make it through.
A simple thing that I must do.
A difficulty that I must manage,
Before succumbing to the damage.
And yet that thing I cannot do.
Alas, my will is not true.
Can I create determination,
Doggedness and motivation?
Are these things that I can make?
Or would they fail for being fake?
The riddle is quite enthralling.
I ponder it as I’m falling.
Perhaps there is no solution,
To my self-made persecution.
The objects that are bursting fore,
Are in fact subjects, nothing more.
That which I call reality,
Is a story of mortality.
My limits and also my end.
How will it twist, how far to bend?
Before it breaks, before it’s lost,
Before I can compute the cost.
And thereby I lost my point.
Connections melt, ideas disjoint.
Thoughts have drifted way past yond.
As ripples from a splash in pond.
Like the ripples, they too shall smooth.
With tale intact, and truth unmoved.
© 2023 TheRememberings Ltd.