narrative

We are shaped
by the pressures, expectations,
definitions within which
we grow.
Even when we accept objective evidence,
interpretations encode what we know.
Tell me your truth.
I may accept, suspect, deflect, reject.
How are we to meet, to speak
bare of swords, of skewers?
What is mine, what is yours,
denies that all is ours,
and not ours – that we, you and me,
are not what matters.
And yet, of course to us,
is all that matters.
Is there an answer? (or nest of answers)
What is the question?
What is our quest,
if we allow ourselves that story?

World Viewer

So he told me
it was like a wheel.
Each spoke held a special
memory, an occasion that
would not quietly fade.
A memory with which to while
dead time, make it less than,
more than real.
Locked away, alone.
Physically there is no torture,
not even discomfort.
But what to do, how to behave?
No one to scold or contradict.
No one to hear or listen, to
play against as friends, to share
the chores of explaining our world
into being.
This world I imagine, develop
its contours within my inner eyes.
I explain my world’s many layers,
massive geologies, pretty associations
becoming ecologies.  Over condensed,
imaginary  eons, populations
of sentience evolve.  I scope in on
individual psyches.
I intuit their reasons and yearnings.
I listen to their anxieties and dreams.
I have found my vocation,
world viewer, thought spun into
alchemists’ gold.