This land is vast, woven of pine and grass
sustaining and swallowing hope.
I spin life on the wheel, churning legs and
shouting hollow words and I am
by my intelligence beguiled.
I run, flee in haste, scamper as my cowardliness
swallows my pride and words make a poor excuse
as I burn the land from here to the sea,
making righteous women into whores and
folding my arms as I survey the damage.
But that would be too much, to comprehend
this havoc and the rabid sea of tears.
For a disguise I would pay anything
but visibility is my sustenance.
My life is my foe's debt.
So I tear asunder the esteem of my colleagues and
my falsehood is a shield from woman's wrath and
the reality of who I have become, a mouse
fleeing from the riot he began as the
valley prays that his subtle terror will not come to them.
Please, do not burgle my innocence, my strength,
the burnished core from my chest.
I am sick at the sum of myself
ill-invested and bound to be
frittered away, the ultimate exercise in futility
painting my heart black, plastic and
degenerating and useless in time.
This debilitation infuriates and discredits me and
I cannot even begin to grow.
4 August 2010
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