this poet is a fake

in the mud i was formed,

in the dark, not Apollo's bud,

but Promethean bone - the rock

before the flesh made whole -

exploring events that occurred,

colouring them with the hurt

that was or was not

and thus shared amongst us all

and in the shadows my thoughts

congeal, draw close, fearful;

gain ascendancy through dealing

in sounds and lies

i say nothing factual -

how else to come to truth?-

the path is made with pebbles

of indiscriminate memory merged with falsehood

all prophets, all poets,

all who tell stories about their lives,

find the right way to explain themselves by mixing fact

and fiction and pronouncing them in the light

mother, these words are not from your hand,

not from the truth of our lives, rather, i find them

in the wrinkles, in the history of all the things

we never said or never heard

and i hope if father turns in his grave

it is only the better to listen

to the things

his son has to say

the son who has found

the best way to wipe away clay

is by telling stories

of how it might have been

this heart is on a train ride

to understanding,

it tells of false pain to explain

how it became human