My story flows from my sorrow,
Its jagged edges, a red, reeling heart.
My story is born of my sin,
Deliciously secret, guilt caressing its dirty lips.
My story is born of my love,
Deep, yielding, fraught, delicate, ever more and never again.
My story is filled with my dreams.
Feather-light, they fill me to bursting. And then some more.
My story speaks of desperation
Of dried-up tears, dashed hopes and itchy scars.
My story has the rabid spirit of vengeance,
Of the embers of anger, the ashes of wrath.
My story has splashes of furore,
Of restlessness, and wandering monkeys.
My story is made up in my mind
And lived on the crackling veneer of reality.
My story is made up of my words,
An experiential vocabulary, my eye fixated on syllables that will fit just right.
But really, my story has no beginning, nor end;
It's a speck, it's but nothing in the endless swirl of the Hourglass.
