The Deposition Sebastian Bach Through lens obscured by thought extreme,
I have never once been denied
At least a momentary gleam
Of its counterpart passing by.

To mistake this greatest gift for any less;
To not be moved and move to be
Prepared to douse as to ignite
And not relish darkness’s absence,
And not leap up and lap up light
On my side or gesturing…just
Ahead or just a bit…
Further, behind;
But still so much closer than that sun in that sky overcast
Or those little red spider thread veins in my eyes freshly drained,
And not realize…

To not stop and realize that this
Bleak, empty, dark, little
overactive synapse,
overgrown inkling that spreads like cancer and systematically rolls around
my brain collecting data
to justify itself, to magnify itself,
and to unilaterally install itself and declare itself thought;
and not only a thought among thoughts, but the ultimate,
extreme, be-all end-all; calling itself my mind,
my heart—
Calling itself Sebastian—
To not get that the very existence of that
little shit depends solely on
and in itself enhances
My heart’s understanding and acknowledgement of true happiness—

To doubt at all is to doubt too much.
If anything, my fault is such.