My Unresolution

Waking up and looking into the bathroom glass,
you still appear to be waiting for something to hit you,
a cold cup of water thrown in your face to wake up,
far from the top, I've come down the stairs to breakfast,
I don't care to wander in the morning, my mind does on its own,
the cracking of cereal and water slide of the cow's produce,
and the spoon seeks to feed the mouth, its counterpart eying the paper,
crazy to think, normal to not, and I thought I left bed at 9 in the morn.

The jazz doesn't wail or wind down the alley way in these parts,
although we seem to have a knack for shooting 'em up lately,
all the same, off to class where all seems sane, in the warm comfort,
were it true, but I lose my sight to the floor to which my neck bends,
"..ahh to sleep.." but my friend, that was a toast to death and not rest,
the crusade for my mind continues and I ambivalate as to whom is right,
head or heart, and the question of who can keep this history straight,
did Abelard really mean everything he said, and who's to say otherwise?

Following my study of our confused and bewildering ancestors I lunch,
in a Shakespeare: who can eat at a time like this, Branch, party of two,
search party of two, find the truth, tied to a forgotten cross in the Pope's office,
or bite your tongue and take what's spoon fed to you, sleep for centuries to come,
take the pill of inaction and seal your casket and, protected by indulgence,
go down to your spiritual grave, your body will follow soon after,
yet who am I to speak over the headstone of my ancestors of fault,
of whom I have dipped my bread into the cup with and breathed ash.