through the looking glass

Fr. T once said we all are our own murderers: knife-to-heart twist twist twist

I still look for evidence. to explain the age-old question why?
perhaps to sneer, perhaps to laugh, perhaps to cry.
every day, every month, I morbidly search for more, and find it.
familiar rings a bell so like you can't be true

recognition

guess I'd rather be wrong then know my accusation was true.

then, the edges soften as ages grow
and soon before long I come to know
there is no answer to why or when or how could you
there is no end in sit-and-stew

lifted, only left with a trace of tear
a ghost that leaves nothing to fear
within yourself this peace may you find
surrender, truly, to live sublime