Centurial Tree

I desire the embrace of slumber, as I lay on the bed
Yet something cruel and menacing bars my way.
An intense need to get it out of my chest,
In the open, let it flop,
and breathe words of fire as it burns away the rage it harbors.

I can't lay my hands around the thing,
The object of my irritation that keeps me awake.
Often I like to imagine I'm unaware of the nature of my predicament,
And that is lying to self,
And my lie gets caught by the meta-cognition.
It laughs in a crude mocking manner,
Points all the black fingers
At the thing, yes, the thing, the very thing that is torturing me!

I reenact each future encounter like a play
In a remote location and the cast only knows the one play
And they keep performing it every waking days.
Unable making myself rest at peace,
It keeps popping up a question--what if?

Wish it was all and my vanity is left somewhat,
But that is lost as I reflect on my dwindling standing
The same ones that cherished me once
I am a centurial tree among them.
Perhaps laying awake like a sleepless watcher
is the only role it plays.
And I grow toward another century.
In the deep of the night.