Conversation With Myself

I abhor the night For sleep has sworn enmity with my lids Lethal questions plague my peace And my heart shows me no pity In finding rest for my head Try, try and try I try But the questions gush like A burst public pipe What if the sun were to rise from the West Or trees were to grow from the sky? What if I were not my progenitor's seed Or I was conceived in slavery? What if these scions of mine Came off the loins of another? What if I have vehemently sermonized Against those I was anointed to preach to? What if I have plucked at a time, I was to plant Or spared that which I was to burn? What if I have chosen horde of words Over stillness amid vexation? What if I have diligently removed ancient landmarks When I ought to preserve the milestones? What if my kinfolks were to kill another unjustly Will I, as judge, pronounce the guilty verdict? What if he I call my brother is the staunch adversary And the perceived foe is the blood-friend? What if I were to be made king Will I lose the touch of the commoner And vanquish those that will not bow before me? What if I were to be at war with another Will I kill a starving enemy or wet his tongue? I perceive I may never know until it confronts me.