shaun tenzenmen Poet Rhyme

It’s A Good Life If You Don’t Weaken

I polish ghosts into a golden age,
 the past appears the way I need.
Where I reside is carved on the page,
 walls erected outline my screed.

So many names dissolve into the dust,
 a lifetime’s work reduced to yellowed ink.
One path is quietly being discussed,
 another burns alone beneath the drink.

Stitched a self from fragments within,
 a life becomes the story that remains.
Bus rides through the snow become a hymn,
 breathing softly in the smallest pains.

Is artistic dedication noble
 or just self-imposed isolation?
The mystery is solved inside the story,
 but the mystery itself is an illusion.

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