I fear I’ve overplayed my hand.
Perhaps you do not understand: this
Is all I have, all I
Am. There is no more, no door that’s
Closed and waiting to be opened. Rope
And tree: the end of me is the beginning of
We, unless (I confess, it is this that scares me)
Unless your candor spares me no place to lay my
Heart. To start and not to finish, to grow and yet
Diminish is a fate, not worse than death, but still,
This is my self of which we’re speaking. I feel the lonely
Leaking of a soul in need of succor.

Or am I
Just a sucker…?

They Come

We seek not to offend but to
Up-end your little world, head to
Toe; to overthrow your calculations,
Your vain confabulations and conventions.
Our intentions more than peaceful, less than
Violent: to quell the silent tumult that rings from
Looming rafters, to take away the laughter plaguing
all your nightmares, the ones that
Scare you into thinking, worried that you’re drinking
Hemlock spiked with poison, while the noise of
Screaming chatter (not that it matters) is everywhere
You listen. Eyes closed open, hoping, hoping, sometimes
Groping for answers that elude you, this insight that
Deludes you in the quest for understanding, all demanding, all
Dismissive. We’ll do everything in our power to
Deflower your illusions, confusion in our wake, contusion
As we brake and you take a flier into
The dashboard of your vision.