what now?

 

I'm not the icing off the blade,

topping any cake of celebration.

I'm not even the blade,

created into function,

handled, hot-handedly.

I am before blade,

but not in denial of its usage.

I hide as a utensil-person.

wear purpose.

act out as a functional jerk.

fill my days and my daze,

with wander,

around inside of the busy-ness.

wake up now and then.

reactive to purpose posing me.

what a way to hide!

best camouflage is being busy.

yes, serving others.

leaving them clueless to my cause.

living as the noun and the verb of it

at the same time. 

but undisclosed, even to me.

to climb the mountain of outer attention,

only to find myself imprisoned. 

then to climb the inner mountain,

senselessly badgered by huckster meaningfuls.

to shed understanding's loitering dialogue,

somewhere deep within.

yes, the icing, the blade, the utensil, the purpose,

bleeding clues that I can't drink them.

leaving syntax, laughing at me.

into what act that has no form?

reception that has no delivery?

contextual that has no reigns?

essence smiles with lips of absence. 

and now, finally,

I am kissed-off . . .