I have slogged through a sewer
its walls crumbling to red clay
river shoals strewn with water lilies
a cave faintly lighted by their reflection.
I associated with dubious denizens
thinking they had literary merit
but I observed too closely
and what we see we covet.
I craved the differences between us
they were a new life
familiarity having worn mine out
I slipped into something else.
There was much ado about style
the things we did and how
how I became the subject
and I observed myself.
Stealing through the story
the writer died the subject lived
the ending was never to be a conclusion
and it wouldn’t have meant a thing.
Poet13's Blog 