The Work
I've lived in it all my life -
the self's grand fiction -
refuge for the child, youths
rebel fortress and a walled
cloister to house
the holy relics gathered
on the pilgrimages
of my mind. I have built it
line by line with words
baked into bricks.
Rooms follow years
down passageways of books,
dusty manuscripts and dreams
hung in stations along
age blackened walls.
In high towers, windows
open to a universe
with a terrifying silence
at its core.
I hear reality's hard fist
knocking at the door,
a presence breathing
its corrosive damp into mortar,
unpicking me
brick by brick. And yet,
a sense of peace in surrendering
what was never really there,
dissolving into what is
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