his true false-self 

enamored, groomed, 

handsomely shaped; 

speaking in sweeping 


heard only inside a 

closed mind. 




devoid of innocence; 


all shreds of truth 

spill out, discarded 

in the misty gloom 

of emptiness. 


ever stepping 


each pace measured

in short sure clips,

their sound

resounding off

veiled, barren walls

containing nothing.


each thought


by internal mentors,

interrupting all

incoming understanding,



reflecting outward


syllogistic rhetoric.


all performed

with a flourish,

to moans

escaping from

the upturned mouths

of those held captive

in the spell —


forced to dwell

day by day



Rob Mohr



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