white knuckling Einstein’s insanity
while clinging to resolve momentarily
with hopes of metamorphic constitution.
Again rejecting that haunting reflection
accepting the seven years for the mirror
rather than take one second to face the fear
that somehow justifies the rationalizations.
In this perpetual cycle of wanton glut
this torturous yearning, this ravenous need,
an insatiable hunger he just has to feed
and umbilical cord he can’t seem to cut,
the new calendar holds no inherent magic
in inevitable repetitions of that Eve
as Adam grasps the apple trying to believe
in miraculous dissipation of the tragic.
Yet tomorrow digs its way out of abasement
as yesterday’s head is still hanging low
and though the risen sun offers hope’s glow
he’ll never see it’s shine from his encasement.