I press pause on the player of my life
In order to study the symbolistic words
One at a time

My childhood house reads like a stage set
The background of an uncommon scene

In an uncommon book.

My marrying sister, my dead grandfather and my
Suffering mother all characters in the written fiction
Of my life-
And me?

Popular belief shouts, “Mystery!”
But I am nothing more than some author’s unending
Obsession with the constitution of a hero’s rage

Which is nothing different from a villain’s grace

Whichever side of that thin line the sentence boundaries
Have presumed me, suddenly the page turns
And dark are the lights in my room as the flick of the match
Marks the description of my face as I light the candles in my
Current attempt to backtrack to the language of what it is

To be Human.

Far too far we’ve come as a race away from ourselves
But suddenly I leap from the page
And in all this poverty described I discover my wealth,
And it has become the constitution of my
Hardcover book rage.

Readers read on-
True life is fiction,

Behold the candlelight.