Monologue

I am reduced to grammar.
I have no feeling but in expression,
giving name to the throe and thrum
of what I cannot instinctively name—
yet what can be named as instinct
but the thrum and throe of feeling
we train ourselves to?
What can I do but submit
to language?

I narrate.
It is a fever, this quotidian spasm to define,
voice and phonate this pulse
pyretic for an audience:
monologue from soliloquy.

I am nothing but subjected clauses,
convulsing experience into phrases;
yes, I have put my whole life to words.
But allow me to share some with you.