Wordle #210


Bones burgeon from

Flesh thin as gold leaf.

Rivers of paper tears emerge

Unchecked and indeterminable,

Yes even masks have teeth

Sorrows that reveal and collapse.

Shall I fill my days with longing

A radiant sun in a sheep’s vest?

Shallow mirrors track beneath

My sodden shoes, a reel

Cut in rainbows of gasoline.

I retreat slowly, then double back.




To dream or not to dream


Robert Mapplethorp


If you stand too close

To the heart of the matter

You are bound to scar


Will I part with dignity

Wraith wings palpitating

Amidst a populous lament?

Or will I, as ash, disseminate

Into the bowels

Of an unsigned grave?


How long I have lived

If pain is a testament

A transparent thorn

In a garden that neither

Blossoms nor withers


Will I end an imitation

To the Creator I failed?

My legacy evanescent

Books burned for warmth

In the belly of a metal drum

Expendable to the craft

But exploitable in a fix


The arts are often disregarded for being impractical (they seem to be vanishing from schools along with fitness) and poets are looked at as irresponsible for following a dream that does not generally result in a sustainable income. I am constantly at war with myself. Follow my dreams, go all in or do something more well realistic (it is hard to do both and become a genius). Weighing what I want against what others want and expect of me. It is enough to drive a person well mad!