When the mind speaks

Poetry immensely personal I hide behind
storytelling not talking about my feelings
but the sensibility of others.
What happens have nothing to do with me the onlooker
the observer, like an architect surveying a building
and finding the house wrongly designed.
I don’t mind if the building has doors and windows
and are watertight I gladly move in, love is
another country as passion is an ember of an ancient fire.
You say I’m a liar who tells the truth using the passage
of time as my mentor.
“once upon a time there was cobbler…” there is not
a cobbler but someone else timeless as history
written by those who weren’t there.
My writing mundane I like a forest if they are not
so big I can’t find my way out
Sometimes it happens and breathes of death comes
into my mind upsetting the delicate balance
between life and no life.
I’m not an intellectual reading a book as a pensum
to an exam, there will be no trail of titles
when I have gone.
I like flowers, but dislike flowery poems I find them
artificial, as Gertrude Stein said,”
A rose is a rose.”
But of course, a rose signifies much more.
While not waiting Godot, I will write some more lies
as long as I can.