Self portait upon hearing one's own voice

I read through my own
observations with the speed and precision
of joyless creation
unbending to the forms and figures
as if passing over miles and decades
of unending text unfurling behind
like a spool of delicate ribbon

there is little value in pointing
out how little value there is
in these said observations,
an obtuse echo,
a ringing in my ears
of a not altogether unpalatable
sound, but not exactly
one I clamor for.

words and picture by BCFL