Refraction
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.)
