Long, Slow Description

Sadness is like all mistakes.
It is always present.

It is a small, brown
Blemish on my being
Which no acid of logic can dissolve,
Moving always with me
Through sensation,
Past emotions, instinct, reflex,
Time and Space.

For not even kind time will accept me:
Old, Round time;
Clocks, earths, reason, universes.

Square pegs can be jammed into round places,
"Square" being only ideal imaginations in time.

But in minds of five dimensions,
I am an oddity of one,
Which, by its inconspicuous presence,
Indistinguishably passes through measures,
Leaving them used, but unchanged.

A blemish becomes an endurable aspect
of what I am,
And, gradually,
It comes to be expected,
But not a friend.

- Sitaram