On Self-Doubt

A simple inability
Triggered the silly circuit of cry-baby,
Inside.

Life has to always move on.
He walked back
To a familiarer setting,
His building.
He had to get lunch.
Got a toasted bagel.

An impression of immersion
In his own version of existence
Brought about his observation
Of that over-toasted bagel,
Its corrugations and charred black tips,
Its toric shape,

Into a more than a
Geometric flash,
Edible form.

The very next cognition,
He was questioning that observation :
questioning if there was anything more
Than that geometric flash or edible form.
Or if there was,
Maybe he can't ever know.
Or if he can,
He can't pronounce it
To his or someone's satisfaction.

Yet as he walks now in the evening dark
Under the fleeting weather,
Under the grey stratus
With orange diffuse light
Hexaclinic snow in the air,
He can still not neglect
The sorrowful cold metaphor
For his toast-gone-cold reality.