i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words.
they are cordially invited
to bring their joys into my home,
(sorrows optional, if you do not
have sorrows of your own,
some will be provided to you)
i am always excited
to have new inhabitants living
in electronic pages of my memory,
if only for a night.
i love it when i know
the weight of a soul
just enough
to set it down gently,
surrounded by literary furniture
so it feels at home.
i love to watch from afar,
patiently,
while these people
find their bearings
in the monstrous maze
that is my poetry.
they get lost sometimes -
in mixed messages,
messy metaphors,
silly sentences,
violent verses.
I am in awe of how gently
they can navigate my mind
and come to rest
in a corner that they make
for themselves,
and no one else.
i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words -
a small colony,
a peaceful civilization -
with the occasional war,
a rare skirmish.
their homes have windows,
and on most days,
i don't mind
letting the world have a peek.