Since we are sentient creatures,
(mostly),
we are self-desctiptive.
Barnes and Noble is stuffed
with memoir, autobiography, ghosted biography…
rows on rows of tomes,
written
by,
or,
for
us,
of us,
to explain us to a public, who,
(surprisingly)
gives a shit,
(sometimes).

I am neither novelist,
nor non-fiction writer.

I have aspirations to poetry
so I search for metaphor.

{Saves paper and ink
and, since all metaphor
ultimately disintegrates,
struggling to find room to
“tell all”
allows the enthralled to have fun
speculating for themselves
!}

So,
here goes.

My life has not been:

an arduous Conestoga migration
across some arid, rattle-snake infested prairie.

nor
a bone chilling assent to some
deoxygenated mountain peak.

nor
a soft sojourn in a
bird-songed, pine-forest cathedral.

My life has been:

a well-thrown, skipping-stone,

careening off the surface of the sea,
until momentum ceases
and gravity
weakens the initiating thrust
and I sink beneath the waves
(to which I have contributed, slightly)
joining other well worn rocks resting in the depths,
tumbled by eternal tides,
till, ground down to gravel, to sand,

which I shall contribute to
the foundations of the earth.