The Problem (poem)

The problem isn't what to do
Because nothing is worth doing;
The problem is what to do
When it's all worth so pursuing.

Insomnia encapsulates
The intricacies of indecision
In harbouring the inadequacy
Of clear-cut moral precision.

Half-heartedly playing society's game —
Whole-heartedly holding on to the pain;
Elliptically remaining the same,
Cryptically—————tame.

Stunned by the cyclical appreciation
Of art and "artists", of people and values
Who congratulate depreciation
And believe what's on the news.

The world has so much more;
Untapped, because upheaval
Doesn't interest those with interest
Adding to their wealth.

But wealth is not an evil —
Who stated such a lie?
Wealth isn't money, or greed — it's
How it feels to comfortably get by.

So who is really rich?
The bankers or the businessman?
The ones who scratch the itch?
Wealth is to understand.

Yes — to know that life is worth living.
If only because death is written;
One may as well see it out
In the hope that one is smitten.

Sweet sorrow in parting, as such —
That's the spirit; realising that
We all possess a certain
Midas touch.

Lying awake, concentric circles
Channel Christ in the dark —
Not because he's a supposed God's son —
But because he got things done.

His life and death mattered,
If only in allegory —
But who could ask for more
Than a part in the story?

And so the pages press together
As the syntax encapsulates semantics;
We hold fast to optimism
Because we're all Romantics.

The problem isn't what to do
Because nothing is worth doing:
Life is glorious because each day
Is endlessly renewing.