Truly it is not what’s out
there that presents my sure plight,
keeping me from my delight.
Surely it is not some lout
next door awaiting to plot
my true and humble demise.
So it has to be the bout
convulsing here inside me
hiding from me such device
that with tick-tock precision
does the wrong I’d rather not,
shuns the right I know to do.
So be it, on the cushion
of contemplation there sits
only me . . . myself . . . mere I.
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