there are stories in each of us
breathing from the mulch of days
inches ticked on the pantry wall
not met always by rising hopes.
they say there are stories in each of us
to tell them is it
an illusion or a transparency we can not really tolerate
here in the glare of the world?
like the pursed lips smirk on the prim mother meeting
for the first time Mr Right who works at the gas station.
to tell them
is it our
or enough to hold
hold on tight
and let the fates that are the next day
and the next one on top of the other
build on these
they say stories in each of us
and create after all
what is important
or is it all blasphemy.