Sorrow and forgetfulness,
make the history of memory.
A continuum of random loose events,
glued by a feeling of unbecoming
and history made whole by regret.
The unexamined life is not worth living…
That might be true,
But I live a life put to such scrutiny that no man could survive this.
All the things,
All the things that I think and that I am,
wait bovinely to be perused by the panopticon of conscience.
Self and reason as the plot where it’s weaved this web of failure.
Nowhere to run,
nowhere to go,
hostage of myself.
Alone in this prison,
sacrificed at the altar of me.