Being alone with me.

Introspection in the raw.

Tangled in a mess of my own selves,

Each aching for a stretch in which to delve,

Or perfect purpose to be meld with.

Right now I'm perfect company,

Both somber and sweet I've come to be.

When I look in I see all of my triumph and misery.

A glass of water with a stream at its top,

and a hole at its bottom,

Retaining shape just by memory,

Without grasping at the glass for structure,

I am as I've always been meant to be.

What are answers without the undying question?

What is purpose without being sought after?

How are we to grow if we ever feel complete?

I can peer at it all, so long as I'm discrete,

Wouldn't want to let my mind to wander off its feet.

Author's Note

5 squares, 4 shots, hours to contemplate.