II-XVI In a Basement With Bertha Mason

She is my muse,

an endless storm’s disguise,

like Venice drowned beneath unknowing skies.

She whispers truths the masons never find,

we play at life, no aces left to hide.

Sometimes we stray, each lost within our way,

yet reasons fade in silence, night to day.

I long to write some worthy verse of you,

your hoodie reads, “I don’t love you”—it’s true.

And though I’d never dare to weep your name,

you are the wisdom calming all my flame.

Still, tears might fall—I cannot run or flee,

for cursed I am, forever bound to be me.

What would you say, if only you could know,

that men still steer the tides that make me grow?

They are my joys, my sorrows, fears, and strife,

the aching pulse that shadows all my life.

But if you return, dear, when all’s undone,

bring me the gift of knowing who I’ve become.