I write the small sins of my life
very large. I fill books with them,
dressed up as great passions, the vices
of a man that I am not.
Let me lie to you. Let me
hide in a thicket of words, grown
tall as jungles, dense as morning’s
sunlit distances. Time will
remember only these pages, singing
their tunes across tomorrow, singing
of this small man, written large.
Stephen Brooke ©2014
A 'small' poem