A TRAGICOMEDY IN INFINITE ACTS (penned in twenties)

The leagues of the mind converge,
arriving upon disembodied truths,
comprehended but not fully understood-
being so indecipherable to the conundrum-dumbed tongue,
sound and sight passing from their crowned glory
into the densified annals of the absurd.
For this body and its modes of being are truly seasoned
only for the Art and Techne of Comedy,
Tragedy being a concept we invent
to lend ourselves grandiloquence and credibility,
although we are viable and taken only as seriously
as we can manage to become credibly comical.
So it seems that the mastery of all things expedient to this earthly incarnation
which we must procure for ourselves all too often lies in trickery and deception-
Thus, is any of this worth it?
Between Being & Nothingness, indeed.

Hence, it all comes down to need.
And the real tragedy remains to be the trickery insidiously inherent
in the concepts themselves, of Need vs. Want,
when we need to want all too often more than we want to need.
But, if only just the utmost pertinent information could exist...
Ah! But then we would merely invent tragedy on even grander scales,
and may never return home to ourselves.
Then the comedic just might become our God,
and nothing would be left sacred, save the profane, the arcane.

And thus is this perhaps, the funniest poem I have ever written.