Baggage Claim

Well, some times, even amidst the comfort
Of what essence I frequent the recent month
The crimes of my heart—rather, its absence—
Coalesce in the dark and plot further madness

And to no truth or other excuse do I submit
Yet the void of existence
Begs, like vague commitment,
For my personal acknowledgement

Still, I have much practice
In dismissing such tasks
So I pursue my own paths
Lacking patience for the placid
Flacking salience of the past