questions of self

is it too early
to ask for my own pardon,
to inquire about the manner
in which i may meet myself
anew, perhaps with new shoes,
or less words, a brighter flame,
or even a definition
of my indefinite?

there are sad excuses for
wayward words, for
mistimed withdrawals and
for deliberate misunderstanding.
it is true i never loved the barber
yet sought the shears with which
to cut away the ivy
of my cluttered head.

not much has happened that went
unnoticed by those who matter
or do not matter. everywhere i am
i encounter myself in others
or in their words and actions.
therefore, when they seek to erase my name
or sing my praises i must forgive them
for not knowing me, for not knowing
i have been foolish the entire time.

what have i done? what did these hands
do, if not spell out the exact nature
of my folly? what purpose did they fulfill
by penning these forlorn pages
where the evidence of a forgotten sea
waits to be buried?

for my part i am resigned
to never taking myself as seriously
as i present in these pages.

i too am a fool and a clown,
clumsy with words.