Self-Defeat

I implode within my conscience, the
unenviable purge, to consort with this 
ghost who never obeys my pleas, wants,
and desires, yet, this grandiloquent lie
suppresses and grapples the faithful and
the unmoving soul stays bound, this fading 
trust isn’t weakness, but the lack of empirical 
proof allays all doubt, no stone tablet of 
soft lyrical psalms confirms anything, 
there’s been great writers in every century,
and an alcove of fiction are what myths are 
made of, no inner voice speaks to me from 
some abundant cloud cover, no guilt-laden
apologies, no romancing some diverting fable
to appease the musings of others, what I do 
find gratifying in this life is the multitude of
creatures that survive without myths, or the 
gray on a goose that matches their fated gloom; the
saddest and most immaculate lie of all is to
keep the immersion of this ignominious fabliau 
alive with hope, but without hope man would 
believe he’s an inferior god.