Finish I this with foreboding. For life has trekked forwards.
From infancy to fragile adulthood, I have firmly stayed.
Frightened by an end where unknowns are inflexible; death ‘unfixable’.
I framed my existence in frozen platitudes from fathers, and forebearers.
I finally, from the comfy sietch affixed around me in effervescing safety, form an inquiry.
Usually, I undulatingly utilise various utterances. Unusually, I pursue this uniquely.
Undoubtedly yours truly derives unprecedented indulgence in uniqueness. Indubitably.
Unless I unleash unseen choosing of youthful aging, one can presume little change.
Youthful exuberance moves into summerful resolution. Truth be told.
Routine wounds me more than looks from being outlandish did. Unfurled self is urgent.
This thematic shift is thoroughly enjoyable. I thrust myself into various breadths.
Whether the weather be conducive to bethink, I gathered a book to reread through.
The tome betroths the past; is it truthful, or truthless?
These thoughts hold my mind in abated breath. Will those prove Truths?
This maelstrom gambles everything. I think that I then need to pause.
At the beginning, adulthood appeared as an anxious child adorned in lies.
That was all I could apprehend. At long last, I scan for deeper meaning.
Formatting myself at aristocratic aims, I gaze at my goal.
All attacks from my past are impotent. All attacks to my past are impotent.
Bureaucratic applications are arrested. All papers have been accepted.
Reading this back to myself reins in the reality: I regard myself religiously.
Reorganizing recognised portions of my soul, I reuse old reruns.
Really I write to reexamine required cultural aspects. Will I rest?
Religion is rarely applied to art for the sake of itself. Birds represent this.
Birds represent that. When will a bird be a bird?
Keeping the course in poetry, I conclude one thing:
Containing myself within constraints can display common ties. Uncommon’s still my cast.
Contaminating the future with the past, or contaminating the past with the future?
Particularities of my idiosyncratic capabilities, they can never culminate in Me.
Contours, creases, and configurations of me, I control it all.
So, there one has it. I have completed the challenge in my own convulted, and crazy way. I release this post later in the day for one reason: it is 30 hours before my 30th birthday. More birthday posts should follow, but this ends the poetry challenge as laid out by Mr. Trantham.