What do you do …?

What do you do when everything 

held dear is so 

near to the truth

as a star to your sun?

And whilst Tuesday recedes and

Wednesday approaches, 

you broach the 

strange truth of your rhymes.

As you wrote what 

you did, as in action and rewriting,

it felt so truthful – really it

seemed quite right.

But if your night of love is to follow 

my day of done,

and if we are to continue to say

how so, 

and if we always will

remain unstoppably

sane in our whys and our ones

and our twos and 

undo,

then what do you do when you discover 

your strife, whilst

ringing absolutely 

true in that moment you went and gave it that life, 

bears little relationship to what you

thought and 

sought to present as the reason 

for easing so long and slow

through an existence 

quite 

unfulfilled; quite wasted in fact.

And yet in all your falsehoods,

there is still a burning core: your environment

was manipulated, but so much closer

to home than roaming rock.

And even where the watchlist watched

you this eagle-

eyed,

it only watched

because of the distrust 

you exhibited as a result of her 

control: like show artistic or in some way cultural

your illness was 

profoundly real, but mental distress not 

mental excess.

And the possessor of actual 

infirmity uninformed 

was the person no one diagnosed

as diagnosable of anything.

And so abuse comes 

in many forms and

shapes; and so this obtuse itself comes close 

but not enough 

to making the family believe the wider curiosity.

An angle of injustice the state decides to

sanction for thirteen

years long and horrible ruled: an angle 

quite Pythagorean in its elegantly cruel

simplicities: 

be with me, and 

be safe;

let me wife you 

on these terms and conditions;

let me deny your own reality

broad;

let us never cross swords

nor enjoy that up and 

down.

And so it was that you frowned all your life

and never really trusted another.

But this has all changed today:

everything 

is gone.

Everything is fine and grand:

the past roundly

passed, I never can now

suspect my own reality again.

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