at the end of the day,
with my illusions at bay,
when bound to obey
a truth so gray —
i travel the depths
with sondering footsteps,
to see if they help
or merely cast a vignette
of eclectic readings,
and years of heeding
the lives preceding;
still bleeding —
like a pair of lips,
cracked at the tips
in sorrow’s grips;
hardly equipped —
to deal with ‘the self’  
with words off a bookshelf,
too dry to spell  
the thought of oneself.