Mea Culpa

 Isn't it strange,

When you are not 

Who you thought you were,

Or not who you are supposed to be?

What if you are always wrong,

Always too disconnected,

Always too predictable

Always too clear?

None of the things 

You really want to be.

What if you always know,

How it begins and how it ends?

You, the writer who unwittingly

Spins realities out of words.

You, the dreamer who manufactures

Visions that foretell death and doom.

The architect who, on purpose

Leaves the hole in the wall,

Knowing very well 

The facade will collapse.

Who, then do you blame?

And who do you pursue?

When nothing can match 

Your imagination, 

And no one can be the anchor

To your ship, that refuses 

To stop circling stormy seas,

Just because if it all goes wrong,

The downfall is yours alone.

Who will rein in the river,

When all it knows is to flow,

Without stopping to meet the shore?