Once upon time,

Is the color dreams

Develop on ripening.

My world is concave,

No longer small

But steadily inverting.

I think I would look

Better if I were inside out

Then you’d see

How deep my convictions run.

Perfection is an illusion

Favored in hindsight.

All this wanting, all this looking

And still nothing achieved.

How does one fill a hole

That isn’t there?

I am paper, I absorb

The realities imposed on me,

The contradictions

The fallacies labored

And satisfied at the expense

Of my gravel-ridden soul.

I have no questions for you

Only accusations and even they

Are mostly self-inflicted.