There are no other caves besides the personal one.
There are no other shadows but my own.
Aloneness at last reflects back to me a clue in separation
that togetherness can mask
for now I see my own puppet story skills
for what they are.
I put on a wicked good show.
This cave seems to lack an exit
so the way out appears to be in —
into the muck of my own waste.
Submerged and miserable,
there are only two options—
drown here or
stretch for breath
and reach untainted ease, at last.
Perhaps i’ve grown so old that the shackles no longer hold my wrists
or the flattery of the shadows is no longer true enough
to hold me sway, awaiting impossible union.
The drying out of this body
a time bomb that I ignite.
The eyes that meet beyond the bomb
do not shadow play anymore,
and once the cave is left
the dark draw has no pull.
Life as Improv 