Not even to save my own life, help me! ~ Monday, August 3, 2026

If I try to write a novel, words fail
fortress of solitude, if I portray

I see myself in the mirror, reflect

trust in the characters, held without bail
rely on the scene and setting to move
yesterday into tomorrow, I pay

to live with all my dreams as to deflect
off the walls like a racquetball, this room

witnesses observe what I have to prove
rely on description, the mirror screams
in a moment of reflection, so pure
to dip a toe, the quicksilver of dreams
enter the imaginary, endure

architecture as narrative, the loom

notices in the weave, the warp and weft
objects to make a tapestry, image
views the maker without deceit, such grief
emerges in each line, sentenced, bereft
literature reads beyond devices

words fail my hand to reach into my rage
objects of psychological belief
resound against the walls, an empty space
demonstrates mind, an ideal suffices
suppositions as to explain the brain

fellow travelers find themselves so lost
architectonics of the novel, the train
in a word, spells out truth, ideas accost
lithe as angels, burnt wings, left in disgrace

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