I trace the circle around me
well salted with cynicism.
Sharpened stones lie
in every quarter,
while I’m cloaked
in rationality, secure
nothing under the sun can touch me.
Bleaching daylight
gives way to the moon.
And nocturnes too
subtle for day’s
cacophonous babble
break
through to pierce
my too proud heart.
I cross the lines I
created,
cutting myself on my own
touchstones.
My cloak falls off in
tatters
and I fly
until I am star drunk
and well sated.
There is no shame
in my eyes
when I greet the
rising sun.
This poem was created by a prompt given by me at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads, Meme, where I asked people to create a poem from either the 13th line on the 7th page, or the 7th line from the 13th page of a book nearby them. The book I used was Witches by Erica Jong, and the quote that provided the inspiration (line 7 on page 13) was, “The rationalist scoffs, secure in his
superiority to all those who claim that intellect is not enough to take us
through this life.”
