there are stories in each of us

multitudes living

breathing from the mulch of days



inches ticked on the pantry wall

rising heights

not met always by rising hopes.

they say there are stories in each of us


to tell them is it

an affront

a blasphemy

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

and most 


after all.

or is it all blasphemy.


after all.