We write the bitter fictions
of our lives to escape
the crushing disappointment
of our reality.
The pages swallow our rage
so that our mouths may deliver
a palatable version
of what our minds can accept.
We collect the volumes
and stack them away
secretly building
our own funeral pyre.
And when we die,
the mountain will burn
and the ashes of our truth
will blow away like the lives
we did not live.