I looked in a mirror and said, I know you not. At an impasse in development, wondering about diamond ink. And memories linger, forming citadels. A surprised spirit, shocked to see you so ghostly: a permanent imprint, most astute, to plan diligently. Much invested. Most deliberate. Touché: as in point made, point taken. I took a second look, a third in fact, realizing a multitude of contradictions. Never to see you sincerely; never to understand many emotions, triumphant strategist. When will they see you, a chameleon needing to be seen, never asking, silent in trenches—soothing discomfort. To have become powerful, to have unveiled esoteric keys, in it all, to have learned how energy works. A most brilliant ache, a tremendous lance, thrusting through cosmos. (Another is just as astute. I take to sweating infernos, pin-ponged, tacit between extremes; and forgive trespass, so sincere an angelic coffin, flummoxed beyond annunciation.) In life, flying freely, founded by mystery—each mount in winds, waxing eloquently, aloof to coarse existence. And Love was swift, swarming through bees, accustomed to a smartly wit. (In the end, neither will win. I’m proud to see you’ve returned to self, upon an unspoken presence.) I looked into a mirror and said: You do not have a clue. Emotion morphing with intellect; such an offbeat texture; to exist at such a disadvantage.
