Bastille

I speak of my own wisdom. My own solitude.

My own reinvention of the wheel.

I stand in my own prison. My own fortress.

My own Bastille.

I arm my own enemies. My own friends.

My own whatever is inbetween.

I’m the harbinger of my own maker. My own knight.

My own queen.

I rest in my own alcove. My own tower.

My own below.

I’m my own shadow. My own limelight.

My own show.

I’m my own stow away. My own give up some day.

My own appeal

I shutter my own darkness. My own brightness.

My own reveal.

I watch over my own shoulder. My own memories.

My own back.

I derail my own securities. My own accomplishments.

My own track.

I attack my own warriors. My own armaments.

My own war

I bleed on my own battlefield. My own throne.

My own floor.

I’m my own apology. My own sorrow.

My own gore.

I encourage my own downfall. My own destruction.

My own defeat.

I give myself my own run around. My own distance.

My own retreat.

I’m engulfed in my own creations. My own invention

My own concern.

I’m my own entrance. My own exit.

My own return

I surrender my own sanity. My own solace.

My own victory.

I fight my own Benedict. My own Brutus.

My own me.

I’m my own discomfort. My own contenment.

My own ideal.

I stand in my own prison. My own fortress.

My own Bastille.