Doodles In The Margins

My life is but a story
I tell about myself.
Each day is an invention,
a new chapter without
one hint of a true hero
or morals to be drawn,
not worth the ink and paper
wasted in the writing.

I find poetry in lies,
in the spin of candy
floss, of sugar into air.
How sweet the spiderweb
would taste, if arachnids knew
the art of confection
as well as that of killing,
if words were more than husks.

To suck imagination
dry is to taste the dust
that fills the spaces between
stars. But such an image
is surely another kind
of fiction: a facile
way of saying nothing, while
truth remains unspoken.

Like a spell, whose gibberish
evokes fundamental
change in the very nature
of reality - yet
somehow costs nothing - I state
the obvious and seek
to make it sound as profound
as a hymn, with no god.

In a world without heaven,
there is also no hell,
no need for the protection
of angels, when devils
doubt their own drear existence.
I make up my own myth:
mere doodles in the margins
that mark the page's edge.