A Visit from Freud

A sober moment to reflect,
as my brain makes its case
in words my heart can understand:
if what I will endure is nothing,
it begs me
– through prophetic dreams –
to consider
what you will endure,
what mud you’ll be dragged through,
what mud you’ll drag yourself through
to be with me.
The ghosts of the dead watch,
and while they are polite enough
– or beyond worldly care enough –
not to judge,
they remind me of what we risk,
of what we are.
They remind me
of who will be hurt,
who will be watching,
and that ultimately
I will be left
to judge
myself.

How can any amount of deliberation
make this seem
sensible?
Correct?
Doable?
Perfect?
It simply will or won’t be,
along with
outrageous
c
o
n
s
e
q
u
e
n
c
e
s
.

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