I am neither
    infallible, nor
    inflexible, and
this constant clearing of air
seems to fall to me.

It is like hitting
narrative beats:
my progress feels inevitable,
as I am swept along in
the current of a story
from another's pen.

I tumble along,
     unknown to the narrator,
     unseen by the readers.
I present blandly one-sided in this light,
my most thriving facets hidden 
by murky ignorance,

All I get is yet another
false moon, but still
my dusty wings spread,
and I take off on the same old
futile flight, my tired trajectory
predetermined by weariness.

Redemption could lie in a previous draft,
scribbled in the margins,
if not between the lines.
A concession edited out for concision.

But an unwanted truth can never
Prevail over a convenient lie,
And so I am left to survey it all
From inglorious isolation,
Excoriating words flooding in
Until I am finally submerged.
  

11/05/2019

Posted on 10/28/2026
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