saying only what seems right.
Speaking to brick walls, even ones no higher than myself,
volleys untold crowds of people with my ego. I shan't speak,
minding my silence is important;
it has been so quiet in here.
The hurons have gone and I, lonely with the waning light,
place prismatic ceilings above me.
I would dispel my seclusion with specters of the outside.
They cannot speak for anyone
and are governed by forces larger than myself,
but make noise so loud as to deafen.
My ringing head falls testament
to my dwindling focus amidst spectacle.
No escape - running gets me no where;
I always return too quickly.
My resolve wavers over my future,
that dictatorial ghost. One hand falls away as the other
shoots ahead to trace a new path to it.
In my the refracted garden I created
there are so many choices
of where to become and to whom to go,
that I am halted as people come and go
speaking of a replacement Michelangelo.
Haven't been getting much feedback. Anybody that's reading these, you enjoying what I'm doing? :) I'm certainly loving it. I haven't written this easily in many years.