Somehow

Somehow, I've mixed the stories up.

We talk of love and shadows,

and years of solitude stretch out before us.

Throw out the numbers,

hoard the words, the absurds,

the broken, the spoken,

the token of written sparks

flying upward from the page.

Somehow, I've mixed the stories up.

We talk of death and the maiden,

in case of fire in a foreign land.

Throw out the bodies,

hoard the lies: the but-whys,

the writers, the fighters,

the lighters of spitting fires,

flying downward from the plane.

Somehow, I've mixed the stories up.