In the marketplace, all the mouths opened
and each tongue had a version of the story.
In the hive, the work of bees builds a complex
of gold cells: each room a miniature story.
How do you know where it begins, where it ends?
And which part is the middle of the story?
At the city gate, the woodcutter, the brigand, the samurai
and his wife— What will you believe, whose story?
Life of endless variation, life of primordial
desire masked as intention. You know the story.
I’ve tried to live my truths. Tend your own dagger,
your sphere of influence; write your own story.
In response to Via Negativa: Loose lips sink ships.