Crisis After Crisis

With such intensity

You move from calm mill pond

To tyrannical hurricane

With the grace and ease

Of a hot knife through butter

Aiming your peace or your ire

With the precision of a marksman

Your timing keeps me as balanced

As a tight rope walker

With a millstone pole

Up, up I look into heaven

Down, down into the abyss

Never knowing from which way

The next crisis comes

I wish my spirit could make you happy

I wonder if you truly know pleasure

If you feed those parts of your essence

As I do with beauty, with the absurd

Or, if you are awash in a mist of some sort

That prevents you from knowing

There is nothing either good or evil

But thinking makes it so