Poetry

I stick a match

stabbed

the middle of my eye

Squinting…
and wincing…
and winking…

I strike it
and watch it
burn down…

to the licking…
lapping…
wick…
of my self

It sputters
and splinters
and sizzles out

And without evidence
continues
something more

If paint were left to dry…
If imagination only a lie…

If the whole world was to bleed from its seams…
…the director left behind the scenes…

Alas…

Viva la resistance…
…it dreams…

…the beginnings…

…and ends…

…of things…

I sat
THERE
and watched
from behind a screen
the variety of which
which could be scene
A movie
reality…
…a stolen dream

He was
THERE
as far as…
I could see
with full knowledge
of every [...]