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  • D. Ellsworth

The Inner Room

There is a place within the consciousness where dwell thoughts of the self. It is a room we often visit when introspective. The walls are lined with mirrors, but they are the fun house kind. Thus we are always worse or better in this recess of the mind. More than this, like a hall of mirrors reflections stretch out to infinity 'til we find ourselves a demon or elsewise a divinity.

This is a room where poets love to dwell. There they paint word pictures of heaven or of hell. For faults or perfections repeat, repeat, repeat. Soon we become vainglorious or languor in defeat.

Here are three poems from this room of dispute. Arguments you can either embrace or refute. I note that while I wrote this little time, out of force of habit, I have fallen into rhyme.

Ah well—I am a poet.


We all set goals

for what we should be;

when others do it for us

we cease to be free.

When we judge ourselves

the bar should be,

not "am I perfect?",

but "am I the best me?"

Then take this rule

and others measure

so their current best

will be what we shall treasure.

Math does not count,

not the norm, not the mean,

for nobody quite fits,

everyone's in between.

Day Fade

I would like to stand

in a secluded glen

hidden from the chaos

brought by men.

There I would sit and wait,

let life be,

until silhouettes and silence

set my spirit free.

Inflation or Inflated

Two dimes and a nickel,

twenty-five cent,

for my inner thoughts,

that's the going rent.

A penny was the rate

full many year ago,

but inflation took its toll

upon my ego.

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