A thought resolves itself – surprising and cruel -
Into something clear and hard and perfect:
This is it; this is all there is: you are a fool.
Hold the image for a moment – hope for defects –
Turn it over, study its sintered clarity,
Its sharp-edged and brutal simplicity.
But light is refracted and the truth held this way
Or that takes on other colours, other shapes,
Something added, something taken away.
The mirror in which we live our escapes
Is haunted, like the ghosting on a TV set:
We watch ourselves as ourselves … yet …
Deeper feelings happen quietly; they seep.
It’s the petty emotions that busy and fuss
Our lives. So, like children surrendering to sleep,
We give in to a darkness to which our eyes adjust,
Wake to a past gone stale and a future skimmed,
(While you feel the light is sharp, the light is focussed ...)
Our shadows paler, and our substance thinned.
(You sense the light has bent, the light has dimmed.)