Our self is a thin, rickety ladder, not even put together right
a threadbare illusion of consistency, a cheap magician’s trick
while the mind goes gyring in strange loops
don’t rattle the table, or the whole damn house of cards comes down
Is this why we crave such comfortable consistency from those around?
why sudden lurches in behavior (not us) trouble so, exposing the sky wires, and false bottoms?
what’s remembered is so small a fraction of what was, and everyone of us remembers a different bit
hey, a storyboard would be nice for recounting a life
Even that’s too much to ask
it’s really more like some terrible handwriting scrawled on a series of dirty cocktail napkins
is that an A or a Q?
be kind to that poor magician, sweating bullets up on stage, as his trousers fall down, and all the rabbits go a’runnin’
turning only to find an empty room