The game doesn’t notice pauses
while gods attend to mundane concerns.
All these micro stories, so real,
anguish in motion. All those petty irritations,
iterations, guilt and shame outside, above --
bubbles afloat hug personal worlds within.
Time as pages, folding back, musty, almost
golden. Pages forward clean, unwritten
(unless with mystic’s invisible script).
Vastly illuminated bubbles, strong protection,
transparent. The game invites us,
keeps us equivalent to sane. Intent on weaving stories,
cast consciousness has no receptors for pain.
Only vicarious exquisite impulse emotion --
better than drugs. More addictive.
Projected suffering marionettes our motives
manipulate, yes, we may identify deeply as we choose
to so intoxicate. What have we beyond the ever more
intricate game? Nothing so grand.
womb memory – or wound.
Tell me your painted stories.
Imbue magic by your tragedy,
solve your tears.
Pits, caves, dark shameful places
adhere, embrace like sad children.
I truly mean to hear you.
Shake me. Don’t snarlingly leer
as I drift.
Those constant damning voices lull
Please don’t mistake my struggle to
understand as not caring.
But, no, you simply have no use for