, , , , , , ,

On a velvetine
night, I think
I saw my death.


It was a delicious dream,
soft and smothering
to a voided stillness
everything except
the obsidian marker
and its letters.

It was, it seemed,
a magic mirror,
grounded mysterious
with glowing
green scripts.

It was my Rosetta stone,
and I saw myself
dimly, darkly
through it
into the obscure
depths of self.

The list began,
characters of self-
description, common and plain
and below this facade,
it told of deeper things
uncomfortable, better
left in the dark.

I cast my eyes
down to the deepest
to know the man
I truly was
and could become.

That impatience
birthed confusion
as the meaning
hid between the
and tossed

It’s better this way.
That man I was
wouldn’t understand,
perhaps even fear and hate
the unknown
which is now.

Yet, what of the future?
Will I recognize
a new man,
reborn of the ashes
of the me?