Poetry With Hart

The fear
Is that I’ll be like him
Chasing shadows
A reality of my own
But no others.

That a webwork of words
Will become my prison.
That shadows will whisper
My faults, my successes
My pain, my speaking plain

My end of days
And yours.
I will speak riddles
And you will belittle
The coming apocalypse.

And I will speak
To the pigeons in the park
And think their concerns real.
I will lose myself
Completely

In napkin arrangement patterns
And think it sane
But speaking plain
I am, barely
Contained.