Posibility

Why do you torment me so thou fiendish
Phantasm of possibility? Why?
Was it not enough that you should relish
My fall from sound reason, that I should die,
But now you seek to pursue me under
This hallowed ground, this, my burial site,
To laugh and torment me further still! Sure
Footed reason has gone away, he might
Never come back, and you seek now to house
Yourself in my nooks and crannies for an
Old spite you had with him, like a mouse
You creep from hole to hole, like a great fan
You prevent me from listening to what
I deem to be the greatest source of my,
O! so lacking comforts! What is life but
A tormenting fiend that keeps you all spry
Around the edges but nibbles on it's
Center so as to soil the whole meal
For which you have been working. Now it sits
Upon the cusp of land, and it doth feel
That I should not accompany right mind
To better accommodations than this
Damp ground where I do now trod. Yet I find
That the more I struggle with him I miss
The boat of departure. For he distracts
Me with all his taunts and raves, with a great
Hullabaloo he catawamps the facts
Into so many knives and daggers. Hate
Then fills my soul till it is bursting, makes
My hair stand on end as I contemplate
The measures to which I could go to rake
This fellow off my plot of land; though fate
Has stuck him with me up until this point,
And I cannot escape him nor anoint  
For myself some other portion of land
By my own will, no, not by my own hand.
Seek I then some other will than my own
By which sure wind is more oft then not blown?
Sure footed reason departed by that
Boat that I have missed these many times; less
I have been sure of. Shall I be a bat
That is blind, or shall I not now confess
That there is one higher than my own will
Who seeks my soul as a harvest point, who
Seeks to furrow the soul, it's soil to till
With the everlasting grace of life; true
To his calling I have yet to asnwer,
But converse possibility banter.

                     Possibility, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012