There is a moment
after the moment
when all reside
with self.
The excuse that enervates
wanes
under its own gravity.
And all the compulsion
that sells
evaporates
like the joy
of so many fleeting beats.
But this life,
judged always and everywhere
as if chosen,
is not joy in form.
It is the catharsis --
the release of the unwished for
and eternally unbecoming.
Watch even as they wield the grand attempt,
so unobservant where the
passion spreads thickly.
Curses! For the moment
after the moment
when the energy that
enervates dies
its trivial death.
Philessatry 