I’m stuck,
in the in between place that is always easy to access,
but rarely easy to leave.
I’ve been here many times,
born, if you will allow me to suggest, to exist
in the fantasies that have grown here as I wait,
patiently I might add, to figure out the next door
to leave the one in between place to another.
I’ve met heroes, and villains, and friends.
My heart has been broken, and mended,
rum diaries littered floors that are stained
in jabberwocky blood, and the only consistent notion
is me, I think,
for I’m stuck here, in the unmoving in between that
leads to another and another, the only non-change is me,
I think, unless I’m the in between,
the fantasy
the myth
the story.