Another poem I wrote a few years back.  In which I talk about my own fallback to ‘story’ – but also the limitations of story to define the truth. (See my previous post).  And I do not remember the paradigm-shattering event I am talking about.

I don’t know where this is
I am clueless, really
as to even know where this came from
how this got here, much less where here is

and I am certain I do not know where this is going

this blasts me out of my forty year slumber
my simple cocoon of fiction, of stories
of blissfully thinking I am thinking of other people

it rips the dumb books from my hands
hands which, to be honest, were lonely
even when they held those books for me to read

I want story arc
I crave theme and plot and an unwritten backstory
I miss the trust that I had, that there was an omniscent
narrator telling the world my story
telling me, too, to sit back and watch my story unfold

I used to have the comfort of knowing
there was an approaching denouement

now I wonder, but don’t quote me on this,
that every moment might be the denouement
and, simply, here is where it is


One response to “poem

  1. Pingback: memories of The Charleston Shufflers « novaheart's blog

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