Of Reply

Why do I effort, why do I try?
I speak to them with no reply.

To the creatures, to the trees,
To anyone, if you please.

I need to go, I need to leave,
I am longing for reprieve.

To get away, to going home.
To wherever I may roam.

Which of these will it be?
Why do both abscond from me?

If everything is everywhere,
It matters not how much I bare.

Despite a focus, or a gaze.
Where I look, it will display.

There is no truth, only belief.
The illusion of joy or grief.

What it means, I don’t know.
But I will give as it bestows.

When I give, I’m given more.
When I love, I am adored.

And that abyss looks into me.
Makes me wonder what it sees.

And what is me, what is my?
An illusion of reply.

It is the word even in scrawl.
A growing sum, and it is all.

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