Dripping from the labyrinthine of my mind, a wee thought for the day.
What Shape A Life.
This tottering tower this edifice around me,
mocked by twittering tongues
viewed with suspicion by powers that be,
by my own hand was it fashioned.
Though ugly and unkept
to the keepers of the canon,
its shape was by beauty driven.
Each brick each lintel by my own hand placed
drawn from what I could.
There is raw bone, weary flesh,
anguish is there, anger
by the bucketful,
love by the truck load:
burning thoughts illuminate its darkest rooms,
attack it if you will, it will not tumble,
sincerity its binding mortar.
