In a blanket of preoccupation
there is somehow, a confetti of utterances.
It is a snowfall of memory.
All of this is now before me,
in self-awareness, that is staring back at me
as if a mirror reflection.
Yes, there is an inner slideshow here
but without any word accompaniment.
All the audience seats in me are filled with emotion
as if I am a packed school bus in delivery,
stalled at a stoplight, expressing green for go.
A questioning face from the outside world
may come around the corner into my view.
I am not ready for admittance or disclosure.
I need incessant disgusting weather as a distraction
to share as a suitable disguise.
Instead I press on internally,
with an alternate observation.
It is as if I privately write letters to myself
that look to me like they are written in blood.
My parents never shared their own intimate truth
to any of this with me, from their lives in passing.
Some may call this, my trait of imploring reluctance.
For my part, as it openly displays,
it’s just that my inner dialogue
invisibly is holding me hostage.
To me, it feels like slightly falling forward
with nowhere in mind to satisfactorily land.
I am lifted in movement
but inwardly unsettled in landing.
How many of my steps like this does it take
to complete the unintended circle as it then appears?
Look, just between you and me, is this, yet again,
my introduction to inexplicable happenstance . . .
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