Misspent, misspoken, misaligned.
I find that I am endless as the Night,
Boundless and untidy
Frayed with far too many jagged lines
To be conventionally me.
I am mismanaged,
Damaged and broken
Alone and endless as the Sea
Berated and bereaved
By a thousand moments,
Fathomless terrors of grief.
Like the whispers of winter
That punctuate pale dawns of autumn days
I look down my myriad pathways
And see only the choice between
The Queen’s substance and the Queen
And eternal confusion reigns supreme
In my soul once again.