Inner me

I will concede that all the clocks are wound,
And even tolerate a sense of place.
Know the outer limits to which I’m bound.
Seek out those answers, that may fill a space.
What sense am I to make of this, for yet,
My inner self spins its web, spreading far
Beyond the confines of this static net.
What is this thing, that makes us who we are.
Sometimes a truce of what we sense is best,
Between the suffering that we endure.
This trial of innocence is but a test,
To free our minds from all the worlds allure.
Once in a side street cold and raw, I thought
I felt the deep chasm of what I sought.


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