Sometimes I opt for Wine in the Morning

I began to question, “Why  am I not whole?”
Digging incessantly like the mole
Digging so deep I reached a land unknown to me
I traveled so far I was nowhere to be seen

I remained alone in the circus of disbelief
Where the mind ran forever and the soul found no relief
Adventure time for one to see
If anything was left of me
In the depths of questions with no meaning

I asked the question, “Why am I not whole?
Why do I not feel the warmth of a soul?
Why do the leaves have no rustling and the sun no sol?
Why, WHy, WHY?”
Why ask why?

When the answer is already known.

Who? The mind.
What? Does its job too well.
When? Whenever it wants.
Where? Wherever it feels.
Why? That is the question.

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