Where do we go---when we search through our words,
the sounds of perfect diction,
to cover up the fact---a rhyme---is just a rhyme.
That we as writers---live in an intolerable fiction,
doomed to feel and know---that ink, is just a waste of time.
Stroke of pen, tap of key; lost in addition
attached to bespoke stories,
like vultures of memories.
Picking apart a soul in search of our own,
where the few who know what the forgotten have seen,
still lie awake and cry for what could have been.
Where the convalescent stand trapped,
between the Walrus and the Carpenter;
between the king and Lady Macbeth.
Hope robbed through sleight of hand,
or perhaps poisoned by---the milk of human kindness.
A plan is just a plan, flesh is flesh and man is man.
A specific bite of encroaching blindness,
Lucifer fell from divine lands,
losing a paradise---tragically we as a brethren, lost