It's been awhile since I've been on these forums, and I've rather missed it. This is probably the first thing I've written since the last piece I submitted here, so it may seem rusty or like some form of deprived rant to myself.

Doubts


This is how poetry should be:

A comma, a colon,
A rhythmic rhyme or a piece
Of undistinguished art;
With initial caps or without
That with which gives a form;
A structure/less: that with which was
Lost, once a many few moons ago.

A title is chosen, you’ve chose it well,
You begin like so with an indignant sense
Of lacking humour on the topic with which
You ponder as you write the words;
You feel passion, dread or fearing
Animosity:

You theorize over everything:
Becoming a philosopher for the better cause,
Questioning the benefits thus the doubts;
Despairing over the longevity,
The shortening eats upon you.

You believe that the soul can be infinite
Even although infinity eventually ends;
The numbers, the words and the meaning
Are all lost; for that which could equal forever,
Could not equally value that of a soul.

You begin to live your life for the cause:
Studying Aristotle, Descartes or Nietzsche,
Looking for hiding meanings; for answers
Once lost, once struggled over, once fought
For that this is untold or has been lost;
Tells an answer which yet be told.

You’ve played your cards well,
You have a first class in theory;
You spin your words with philosophical meaning
But, who are those words for in the end?

This is the fate of all philosophers:
Though be ye with or without good intentions;
For cures or medicine,
For money or greed,
You will eventually die, and thus
Your words one day will have little;
Or any, meaning.

You’ve belittled those whom which you
Once feared, once loved, once loathed,
Once envied, once detested and once;
Many blue moons before:
Admired.