Have I become my own cliche’?
A character going down a rabbit hole
Caught in a vice of my own design;
Obsessed and engrossed within
My mind’s maze of alternating doors?
Each one revolving without resolving
The continuuous conflict that leads
To the very same room where I was.
Pathetically creating while dictating
A shorthand of answers like breadcrumbs
Tossed at the feet of a beggar
That has been fasting far too long.
Willfully wasting breath after breath
While denying that each one is is fetid.
Seemingly simple answers weave complexities
As distorted as Pollock paintings.
Colors upon lines within circles of negative space
Leave no trace on the face looking back
In the shards of a mirror shattered.
© Brandewulf 2018