When I was sentient, I knew a man
Whose hobby was to build things out of cards:
At least I think. For my attention span
Is very short, and doubtful in regards
To any but the widest boulevards
That truth or lone veracity might take
And subject to drive off, without a brake

At any rate: the guy. His steady hand
Was such that I admired, in the way
He could produce, from what his mind had planned,
Facsimiles of Paris or Marseilles,
Combining games of chance and macrame.
A balancing, precarious and wise
Of miracles set up before our eyes.

Forfeiture –

The heart that skittered in my chest
  betrayed the world before my eyes;
  the few who I had loved the best
  had spun away to alibis.

I looked and stared, I stared and looked,
  but nothing came to focus clear;
  the wind still smelled as fate had cooked,
  and I was neither there, nor here.

The truth was, I had lost much truth,
  but hearts that change look much the same:
  as I burned under self-reproof,
  consumed to feel I was to blame —

There is a hatred we can’t ‘scape,
  for it is everywhere – and whole —
  a lurking phantom in our shape:
  the forfeiture of joy
  and soul

The pieces that I’m breaking into…

“I fight the fight, but tire …”

The pieces that I’m breaking into constitute a pattern surely some will recognize:
Of withheld truth more than the more alluring, active or constructive sorts of lies

Then, there’s regret for actions taken – mostly those embarked on without thought –
To know what I’m becoming isn’t what I would have been or surely ever ought

But much like fighting gravity, I struggle vainly against character and fate;
I fight the fight, but tire – seeing little good, and surely nothing great

For age despises us, and turns us slowly into caricatures and fools,
Revealing all the flaws we hid when covered up in youth among our varied schools

I sit here with so many words, so many echoes dancing in my head –
To know, like Willy Loman, that I’m worth much less alive than I am dead;
And that, whatever comes to me, I face a time that most of us would dread,
And that I cannot fix it solving puzzles, or by words I might
Have said