I Of The Storm Poem by David O'Mahony

The anguish of pain, the embarrassment of existence, the self-critical eye withers the within; a broken soldier.
No longer can the balmy cheerfulness mask the untempered hollowness of being.
Alas! Hollowness of being! Could it be true?
Do I really exist?
Is there really an I?
Is all… ego?
Thought. That master who ought be a slave.
Weariness is a friend to all man.
Answers lie in wait for those that do not seek.
And in the end I shall still be me, alone, but would I have it another way?
Blessed am I to be granted solitude, torment, bliss.
Blessed am I.