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.




(angel:; mountains:

About Jim Stewart

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

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