An Existential poem

Amidst a grumble of continuous thunder under a sunny sky I searched for and found a small jar of vinegar and I ran as I stripped off my clothes and looked for the higher ground. It’s hard to shed your clothes without the comfort of a chair It’s hard to tug and pull and forget the dirt and leaves, It’s physically hard to attain the naked reality of your being. As the sky turned dark blue at the edges of towering white clouds I screamed in my mind, Let this be the day! Let this be the day that ends in a way I don’t have to decide. Allow the universe to choose, allow me the grace to just become The reality of my non-control of small things, everything and anything. Allow it to smite me if that is a right ending. Why did I ever think otherwise? The wind blew, the trees bent, the quiet air soon filled with sound The rain drops fell, the scent of the world changed and I wondered, Am I pretending? Is this a performance or is it real? What false sense of control by them, they, the wise, or the powerful Had made me think that I too had agency, that I was real? I think, Therefore I am, goes only just so far. It isn’t a proof. In a way it’s a tautology: The very worst of logic. So, I screwed my toes into the soil and poured on my vinegar, And the lightning bolts never came to for me.