He did not know why he did what he did.
He supposed that he chose each plan of action
For a reason, but for the life of him, he couldn't
Decipher just what that reason was.
When he sat alone in his apartment,
Or even those moments when he was surrounded
By friends, and he had gone inside, to that place,
His way seemed clear. Perhaps it was fear
That drove his hand and his tongue and his lips.
It certainly seemed that that was the case.
But why was it that when he tried to overcome the fear,
That had overwhelmed his reason for so long,
That he found he had been a greater fool?
And why did his internal cogs and sprockets,
His gears and whatnot, seem to grind in inactivity,
Screeching and screaming, leaving behind
Only the smoking horror of devastation?
Perhaps there was no reason and no rhyme to him.
Perhaps his method was madness.
Yet he knew that down inside of him,
Far beyond the lowest depths of even that place,
There was a man, or maybe a Man,
That pulled the strings, that made the plans,
That knew, knew what it was that was going on.
Where he was heading. What he was doing.
That was the only explanation, for there were those moments,
When the voice of that inner Man would bubble
To the surface, whispering, chuckling, chiding,
Letting him know that it was all right.
Telling him that he was doing well,
That the mistakes had to be made,
That the lessons had to be learned,
So that someday,
Perhaps soon, perhaps later, but someday,
They would once again be one.
It's just a thought.