What is it they call
Caucher or Frost:
haphazardly stringing together
emotions, souls.
Derived from adolescence,
or nature,
or so-called philosophical beliefs.
Trying vigorously to convey a truth
but aimlessly lost in caesuras,
tropes, and professors.
Can not a flower be simply a flower?
A silken tent purely a shelter?
Or a well-curb from which one
only kneels to see their likeness?
Must simple minds make everything complex,
Beyond their own understanding?
Do they enjoy the bafflement
of the complex puzzle straining
in their little minds?
Perhaps that is the pleasure.
Simply a game:
a labyrinth with ceaseless turns.
Never really having a definite end,
but not necessary needing one either.
Enjoyment in the struggle:
twisted and turned interpretations
A tortuous knot of paradox:
seductively intricate.
All in the quest for simple truth.