In The Telling

My story moves around who’s
doing the telling; who’s listening
also forms the shape of it.
I don’t much care as long as
it’s all about me.
In the dark,
when I cannot see the ceiling,
it’s not all about me.
It’s all about everything.
I grasp the tenuous thread
of my story and imagine
it is all true, even though
I know it’s only in the telling.

angel1

tomorrow

 

(angel: eofdreams.com; mountains: funzug.com)

Advertisements

About Jim Stewart

Writer at Butt in Chair
This entry was posted in Aging, Consciousness, Humans, Poem and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s