Poem: My Mind Is Running Off This Way Again

My Mind Is Running Off This Way Again

It is not certain, not any longer,
and if not so now, it must not have been,
there must always have been an illusion
or a misunderstanding, or it was not that way,
it was never possible it could have been,
but it was distorted and purported and perpetuated,
was made into what seemed to be certain,
shown with care, with proper consideration
of any angles.  Nothing flashes.  It may be,
but to think it was intended, was done by choice,
it is not any good, does not change it
except in the worst ways, in bitter ways.
It was nothing of that sort, I do not think,
but I think it, at times.  It is not real,
I know, it makes no sense. It is an apparition
that haunts me on certain nights,
in dreams or waking.
The worst possibility,
an even worse thing that is not, I do not think,
not if I considerate it, but still it will appear,
will raise as an idea, as it has tonight,
my mind conjuring what is most awful.
I do not know why.  I do not understand
the reasoning whatever part of me it is 
has chosen to put it forward.  
Is it an inoculant to strengthen me
in this world?  Is it a real consideration,
one I am too scared to take as real,
but which is clear enough, in some way?  
It can't be that, I will tell myself,
and with that, I am caught,
certain my own misgiving might be proof,
might represent a drive not to notice.
But when I look, I still have nothing more,
I do not feel there is any reason.
Still, it nags.  I do not know.
I can never know.
I suppose it is best
to just leave it be,
if I had the choice.
If I had control over even that choice in my own mind.

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