I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
The trees will soon be barren, all.
It is that time of year -- the Fall.
The understory never was,
and can't now house the insect buzz.
And, so, the woods stand silently --
nothing treads in peace, nor violently.
It's empty; devoid of motion:
life hides below, as in Oceans.
It does feel like we're out to sea -
a strange place where both sides are lee.
And - so - we're stuck, we can't move on,
but can see promise over yon.
Welcome to the masquerade!
It is your home from now on.
The you you were will soon fade
as you play out the long con.
Welcome to the masquerade!
Where all faces are untrue.
We are just the roles we've played,
not the selves we never knew.
Welcome to the masquerade!
Do you know just who I am?
I'm only what I've conveyed.
It's the "real me" that's a sham!
I cannot be one.
I cannot be lost.
I cannot buy my entry
at a payable cost.
I cannot be three.
I cannot be boss.
I cannot isolate: diamonds
from the dross.
I think I can be two,
just the me & you.
our two could be one,
like two planks form a cross.
dying by the second
from a starving brain;
each new panicked moment
narrows down the frame.
now, my world is dwindling,
shrinking to a dot:
like TV's used to do
when you shut them off.
Now, this poem is done.
there's nothing past one pel --
except for oblivion:
no sight, no sound, no smell.
The desert called; its tone silent.
It asked me out, and so I went.
One patch of dune looked like the rest;
so, I couldn't tell which place was best
to burn just like a slice of bread
stuck in the slot, 'mid burning threads:
those glowing wires, exuding heat
that burn the head and burn the feet.
And so, I marched across the sands
in search of more temperate lands,
but I never reached such a place
and vanished there, without a trace.
Something shakes the high grass,
what it is I can't say.
I see flowers tremble,
near a part-line splay.
I hear dry stems rattle
to some darting moves.
But a creature's existence
still remains unproved.
Maybe it's delirium,
or a trick of the wind.
I catch no flash of fur
on which my claim to pin.
Even from the watchtower,
my grounds are circumstantial.
I can't give proof of life --
at least not that's substantial.
I love a little door to nowhere,
with no apparent reason to be.
Not under a sign or in the square,
but in a privy wall or thick tree.
Somewhere one would least expect a door.
Somewhere that begs the question: "Where to?"
A place for mean rogues, scamps and whores?
A hideaway that offers no clue.
It would probably just disappoint:
to learn the sanctum's private intrigues.
Not some tough, sleazy speakeasy joint,
or bohemian savants' league.
And so, I never, ever knock,
but let the story form in my mind -
a tale to titillate and shock,
one that leaves no misanthrope behind.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 