“Death to hide?” Oh please, give me a break.
Nobody cares, or even should, if you
can make a poem of your worst mistake.
Go think of things more practical to do.

Your soul is bent indeed, like Narcissus,
to serve therewith your ego, nothing more.
If you could meet your Maker at the bus
you’d only try to beat Him to the door.

Your true account, if only you had heard,
is empty. There is nothing to present
beyond a tribute to the molded word
that knows (as you do not) the thought it meant.

And yet… and yet… the music of the spheres
rings in the voice of any well-turned phrase.
The power to move can overcome our fears
of suborning all that power to self-praise.

2014 or 2015