Good Fences

What happened to me? When did I become just a shell?

 

I took all those words and built myself a sanctuary —

a prison it has become.

The truth is buried beneath many layers;

My sense of feeling, numb.

 

So I toss another stone into the sea of possibility

and wait for the ripple to take effect —

The pendulum must swing;

the balances must be checked.

 

The stars predict fame for me posthumously.

What luxury can one afford in death that escapes all life?

To attain my post-mortem status quo of security

I must grow the soul until it is ripe.

 

For the masses demand a certain sweetness of spirit

Before consuming it whole.

Bitter truth must be painted pink lest they fear it —

They will not eat a blackened heart cold.