I am but a story I tell about
myself; a thin blue line, scribbled from there
to here. Ink stained fingers leave marks between
the lines, while each volume earns its place on
the shelf. Although I choose my words with care,
to make them clear; doodles in the margins
reveal my true designs, while such fictions
I might contrive serve to conceal all that
is true beneath the truth's veneer. In this,
I am to be believed: That my fables
are just symbols of what I feel and what
I think is what I most revere; yet what
I dream is more purely conceived: Visions
of winking eyes formed from semi-colons.
