Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Status Update

What will I write?
What will I think?
Where is my voice,
and is it my choice?

The masks abound.
The con artist
wants to be found
out, for the fraud is
who I am.

I am the lie,
but not malicious;
as one man says,
“My lies
are always wishes.”

And all I wish is
peace; I pine
for thoughtful repose,
a window onto snow-
covered woodpiles, a stove
crackling in the corner.

Instead, I find endless windows
and tabs, “friends” of dubious
or unknown origin, the sins
of celebrities and the polis.
Is there no retreat sacred
enough to slough
off and discard
this emoticon existence?

But of course, this is my choice,
to voice or not – my voice
just one among the echoes;
peace but a mouse-click away.

And yet, can the fabric from which
the modern self is woven be chosen?

As if
this were ever the case – my choice
just one among the echoes;
the fabric a mere strand,
more of the same, branded
with an allusion to freedom.

So, the con
is somewhere long gone,
the mask buried deep inside.
And when you ask,
“What’s on your mind,”
this is my reply: I pine
for thoughtful repose,
a window onto snow-
covered woodpiles, a stove
crackling in the corner.