at wrest

i sat down to write a poem

but my words were contrived

and it died, stifled

by the heavy hand

of forced profundity

what i want to say

should be simple

yet in its simplicity

complexity lies, truth

too great to be told

by my poor mangling of words

here i am, wanting to solve

puzzles not mine to ponder

problems not mine to solace

hearts not mine to salve

yet even so, are they?

the islands in my archipelago

and the stars in my constellation —

are they mine to mind?

are they my irons to sharpen

in the living fire?

all i wanted to do was everything

but all i have to say

would be nothing