I covet a place hidden
from view, tucked in
between the Highway
Of Life’s Disappointments
and the Edge of the World.

Access cloaked by years
of unkempt bramble, forks
left, just before the abrupt
right turn onto the Freeway
Of Destiny’s Next Calling.

A hermit’s cottage, quaint,
shrouded in the Forest of
Puppeteers, where one can
live a simple pantomime –
pretend strings don’t exist.

Perpetually perched between
bustle and abyss – a child’s game
of I can’t see you, you must not
be able to see me – I’d sleep,
a blissful state of detachment.




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