I am so very tired (aren’t you?)
of getting caught in the whirlwind
of my own voice.
I could blame everything else
for my speaking too loud
but in the last,
the volume was my choice.
What is to be done?
I’ll stamp down
on the fire of my own protean spark.
There’s no room for genius’ here —
we are the vanguard of the human heart.
You can peer with pity
at the pile,
take a look at its dying embers.
I wonder (I don’t)
what gave me the notion
this would be the cradle
of a new November.
A small truth shouts to me in the dark
it calls and its spit mark light glistens.
‘How do I move forward?’ I ask.
It answers with one word —
listen.
