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Postmortem

Interrupting my slumber is a postmortem I should have predicted.
Perhaps my lack of intuition was always my greatest predicament.
Chaos begs the question, self-fulfilling prophecy or inevitable perdition? 
Were the feelings non-existent or did I delude into equilibrium?

I therapize with my conscience, what was the source of my agony? 
Was it latent, emergent, or the result of a self-imposed tyranny?
Are we ever conscious as to the internal state of our being?
Or is the truth only discoverable from the experience of living? 

In a moment of weakness, I become captive to my senses.
Like Stockholm Syndrome, a dark thirst this feeling quenches.
In my deepest recesses, I'm suffocated by an ephemeral menace.
Nothing more antithetic to deprecating a once exalted presence.

From this fortuity I shall emerge with the clarity that I seek.
And I'll awake once again from a long night with no sleep.
Determined to succeed, finding the confidence I need. 
With an obsequious mind and an indomitable physique. 




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