OH, AND SAFE TO SAY?
I like to think I have a fine body of
work to show for myself. Legacy
stuff, things to savor. It makes no
noise; readership quakes only now
and then. I sometimes wish I was
renowned and famous, but...my
light, under that bushel, turns out
pretty useless or only a candle
that starts secret fires?
-
I can hear the water running - here
the well has a pump, so it's easy to
notice. But there's no fire even there
to put out. I am quiet and dazed? I am
silent and confused? Are they both the
same? Parallel constructions of doom?
-
Why can't I wave my own flag,
somewhere to find a country of
my own making - where people
and things live forever? Where true
words mean exactly what they say.
Where the signs on the doors no
longer read: 'Closed, due to
personal difficulties.'
-
I'm waiting for all this.
And soon.
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