Poems of April

A Mapmaker’s Lie

I am stuck in a mapmaker’s lie,
Where the unbuilt foundations run dry.
It’s a border of ink,
On a ruinous brink,
Just a corporate farm till we die.

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To smile is a single condition,
A heavily managed position.
But the methods of dying,
Of breaking and crying,
Are endless in their repetition.

The Fool’s Ledge

The candles wait upon the floor,
For steps that never cross the door.
They light a fire meant to blind,
To steal the silence from the mind.

A mirror shows the world ahead,
A crimson thread you learn to tread.
But as you touch the glass to speak,
The edges break, the wood is weak.

The jester’s smile is carved in stone,
While counting all that you have known.
He turns his back on morning light,
And leaves your ghost to face the night.

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The morning arrives with a glow,
Though progress feels heavy and slow.
With heart in the chase,
And steadying pace,
The seeds that you plant start to grow.

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There once was a man with no throne,
Who carved out a will of his own,
No figure to praise,
No past to upraise,
He stood and declared himself stone.