Abashed Fright, endless night, perhaps tonight. An old school fool, a tool of someone else's cruel Once more the measure Possible treasure, or Impossible pleasure, what ever, I'll never Again. Contained behind half seeing eyes No surprise when the image is where it lies So much pain, insane, betrayal with entrails Glistening, the light remaining on the wet parts Arcane arts, time darts, poison or a cure Shall age another year for a moment, yet permanent A time is the measure by which we felt As another frame in the projector, melts Melting for all to be blind in that moment For more than a decade now. The clock is not ticking but keeping time As it is perceived its power escapers too soon, Bane or boon for the nearest awareness, carries certitude Not only impossible but unnecessary Just the same, very needed. Is being so passive so as to write in passive Indelibly intention, entirely worth mention If words were needed, it bequests direction directive, reflexive, analyzed by
Looking out, looking in, looking back The dead eyes speak Of miracles in the light Of ghosts in the night Of lost reflection Of broken images A window to the soul A stranger in the mirror
