there are stories in each of us
multitudes living
breathing from the mulch of days
weeks
lessons
inches ticked on the pantry wall
rising heights
not met always by rising hopes.
they say there are stories in each of us
multitudes.
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.
tolerate.
to tell them
is it our
responsibility?
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
multitudinous
after all.
or is it all blasphemy.
live.
after all.