Poetry: The Choice


On occasion, one comes to understand

That life as a fictional character

Leads to an empty pit, and the effort

To remember the lines corrodes the soul.

In these rare moments of blessed darkness,

One is faced with a choice: to tell the truth

Or let it ride. One could lead anywhere,

The other to the bottomless cavern.

As you consider the choice, images

Of faces turned and sounds of sighs pull hard

In one direction, demanding you call up

The courage to deny them attention

If you have any real intent to learn

The hard part of acting without a script.


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Poetry: The Blanket


The feeling is one of shrinking, closing,

Tightening, with a certain tinge of shame

Shattering chains of logic that gave birth

To the feeling. My great sin was to give

Without expectation, but while I knew

Hope might survive a lingering echo,

I moved on, a vision of purity

Attached to my motives, and expected

Nothing. The circle is sealed, the zero

Formed, and I feel a fool while I forgive

The unconscious slight and damn you as if

You were cause, not effect, of childhood tales,

Of threadbare beliefs that a frightened boy

Clung to while shrinking, closing, tightening.


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