This wiki page story is a [little flag] (Plotmeister) production.
Peace out.
+ Comments Appreciated +


Return to index Penguins in a Bottle



Confession


Why the urge to confess?
The unavoidable spilling of secrets,
tearing from the hidden places in the soul
the solemn statues to fears and misbegotten beginnings,
failures. (In its wake, the empty, shamed altars.)
Holding nothing back,
despite the self-evident inadequies of your inevitable confessor.
Poor guy. He is only uncomprehending. Only huma—.
Scratch that thought.

Your confessional, the untidy bedroom, is too public.
Too bright, too wide, too unable to help. Too… too.

In desperation, you turn to panic, swinging up behind on his horse for the ride.

The Helpless are coming, the Helpless are coming.

The locked heart, the cold fingers, the unintentionally prophetic words.

Prose and poetry become friends, lovers, divorced strangers.

Simplicity refracted ten thousand times in the
unforgiving sun, until it is sick with its own gaudiness.

Walking side by side down the sunny sidewalk,
close on the map but distant, never touching, come
shadows without shadow casters,
the past and the present, you and me, words and unwords,
in the place of never meeting; forgotten meaning.