The Lit Path

it is like a sun, you see
this tenseness in me that grows
north, west, south and east
scalding my face so that i blush

but i've been silly anyway
to think that speaking and reading and writing
could make dim that garish ray
that they could ever be my salvation

you must see, the prose i write
are poems stretched out to make sense
i skitter up words that take me aflight
then have to tolerate that strange suspense

it doesn't solve things, it is simply
a self-absorbing indulgence
this escape from the gritty
this highly priced disappointment