I squirm
and thrill
with sherbet
in my mouth
as I dip into
the inky pools of
irony.
Black,
hilarious,
that
I long to sit
cross-legged
at the feet;
feel
inequipped
besieged
at the front.
What a
mockery
a show
that I
should sow
seeds
when the
soil
feels more
like my soul,
in limbo.
Not
ever-so-
-young,
but feeling
more and more
like a novice
each day.
This life,
experience,
so vast
at once
mountainous
fluid and
fragile:
made from nothing
signifying it all.