Fantasies endure the test of time. Out of myths emerge identities. Underneath the prose there is the
rhyme, Revealing what was not and could not
be. There is a well-worn scrim across the
past, Hard to see through, absent light
behind: Old, self-serving stories made to
last, Fictive landscapes painted on the
mind. Just listen to the songs of who you
are: Underneath your words are melodies Long rehearsed, the bedroom door
ajar, Years ago, when truth was meant to
please.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.
