Pretence

So I’m a monk – the kind who doesn’t
intervene unless a life is poised.

No, it isn’t true; your life is fine, you’re
only playing games – you’d like to see
me mantled in a gray prospectus.

I’m not that old although I’ve seen
a season here and there. And where
you live is barely real enough
to seem a trite pretence.

Okay, the sham for sure is me,
while where you are is anybody’s
guess. I’d say you never left the
page to turn a chary word –
although the fantasy is fairly real.

Today is but the end of what was
said while yesterday held sway.

The role you lead will play an eerie
consequence. Where is the end? Will
tomorrow bring us any relevance?
© 28 February 2008, I. D. Carswell