An End to Epistemality

[aletastica]

I sit again alone and lie,
in bed I wonder once more "why?"
Is really nothing more for me
present in this world I see?
An endless realm of incompletes
worth less to me than old receipts
for fleeting wants and false desire.
One must be, I must admire.

Then where can I attain this dream?
Things are simpler than they seem.
In my own hands my fate does rest,
to pass the time, I tap my chest.
When I recall what must be true
I'll have to stand and start anew.
Slowly forward, and then still more
until a feeling like before
presents itself and altogether
forbids the question outright: "whether?"

For if I take this forward leap
and in my hands, my fate I keep,
then questions flee and answers fill
the spots once kept for worry, 'til
peacefully I rest at night
and understand the null of "might."