In Here
In here
I occupy the smallest space,
yet cultivate galaxies
to weave and web light
across an infinite sky,
or in darker moods,
conjure glaciers that grind
towards frozen seas
and numb the mind
with cold. Beyond,
I populate the unknown
with fickle gods.
In here
I pretend to be out there.
You may have seen me
seated at a table, conversing,
appearing to be at ease
when really I am - in here.
Out there I masquerade
as me but what you see
is a fiction,
a mere automaton
moved by levers pulled
by me - in here.
In here
I cast no shadow,
all is a closed room,
a darkened theatre waiting
for a movie to be shown.
Thoughts wind like frames
through lighted gates
and blink images
upon a screen. I watch
and examine each passing scene
trying to put together
a picture of who I am.
In here
there is only me,
the solitary custodian
of a lifetime's haul,
the judge and jailor.
I would like to be elsewhere
but cannot gather in all
that is me. I spill between
the frames of this moving mind,
and these words,
no more than a notion,
a flickering ghost
on an editing room floor.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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