23 January 2013

Familiar Fugue

Truth of knowing what you’re
not’s a finer fetish than obsessing
on the clear and bald-faced lot
it wasn’t ever your idea

That impression strayed and
grew into familiar fugue – didn’t
mean it truly wasn’t you pursuing
your reality in simpler words

You never gave the herd a trust
to reach for truth beyond digestive
harmony and yet its edifice
acclaimed this rare accord

The space you found contained
ideas – never yours initially but
newly born and free to bond
with you and stay endeared

And thus this tongue was earned
like taste and scent and smell
became familiar feints one
learned to gratefully employ

You played the game with skill
and coyly praised attainment grown
in words you raised from birth
that never were your own
© 27 December 2012, I. D. Carswell