My Stery

A world built on nothing
Holds the soul from Something.

There's got to be

More for me

Than what I see

And strive to be.

Goals and gold

And what's told

Really gets old.

(The mold will never hold.)

It's hard to find much else

On the crowded shelf 

Lined with wealth and self.

Might success be a quest

For something less

Than what's spiritually best?

In the end --

To what end

Has been

The trends

And sins?

Do actions and distractions 

Impact the everlasting?

What's it all for?

More and more

I need less and less

Of the craziness and haziness 

That passes for consciousness.

I need more.

I'm losin' the illusion 

(Deluge of delusion) --

Should I refuse the refuge

Of static truth and

Automatic solutions?

I strain to explain 

The long reign of pain.

(Guess my brain is to blame.)

I don't think I asked

For the blast of my past

Or the die that was cast.

I was not born

To conform

To the norm.

I've spent so long

Trying to belong

In a place and space

That was never my home.

(All along I was wrong.)

All this -- I wish

For there to be

More to it.

The mission of my existence 

Can't be to merely 

Get through it.

How can I be content

Having used up and spent

So much time and life

On little fickle drivel

That came then went?

Crisis of identity 

Cries from within me:

"Who am I, really?

And how real can this be?"

I feel I'm about to break!

Maybe I'm just awake.

A mark of destiny.

Marked for eternity?

Questions get the best of me.

After the last chapter --

CONCLUSION.

What will be the

Conclusion?

With the mist and myths of history

Will my story remain a mystery?

©️ matt decker