Steel in a sharp edge peels
back each layer of skin — slices
of truth — to reveal moist
options, flimsy perception. Thinking,
the onion stink can make you cry,
try again and again, expect
that in the end that truth will lie
exposed. Yet, you know nothing.
Wallowing, lingering in why,
entrenched in the wet
of confusion. Sheer
desiccated recourse pauses
in now; leftover shavings
shriveled up in why not — just spit!
Flesh out and enable; hydrate
the unspoken possibilities
persisting, warming the womb
of relativity. You stand
without, stilled, whim
wily, stripped stark, in dark,
in a graveyard, seemingly
left out in life; always forever
with actual choices, whenever
uttered, if ever given a voice.