I am sedated and boxed-in
like a racehorse in transport.
My thoughts become locked in
a monumental wrestling match, vying for support.
creates in my envirosphere
a startlingly cruel sensation
and brings a crude realisation: I know not my purpose here.
A question explodes from within;
malignant masses of words surge skyward,
bursting boiling blobs higher to see which would win;
surging, soiling slobs while they look upward.
Go back to work –
let me silently, and humbly, implode.
My puzzles drown in the obscure murk
which constitutes my life’s payload.
My perceptions come alive and notice the enigma of the year:
I know not my purpose here.
© Annalinde Louw 2006