I wrote this back in 2009, and I don’t remember exactly what possessed me to write it. I think I was pondering existentialism, reflections, and a person who only existed inside my head. Perhaps it was a character of mine. Anyway…
Passion in your eye,
some twinkling reflected by a shining sun,
empty murk turning into a jewel.
Eyes are in a body,
and body hides man,
and man is
What is purpose? It is nothing
you could see in a mirror.
Eyes reflect no purpose in themselves,
only passion, this heavy shell
called life. Mirrors have purpose.
Their creator called them forth knowing
they would reflect many eyes.
Does your reflection, this
flushed, burning thing, not prove
you are real, that your voice,
eyes, hair, body compose your realness?
Reflections are only existence,
Here you are, but what are you?
I am air, you breathe me.
There becomes fear. You step
onto each stone, each step, carrying me
inside, breathe me in and out and in,
my destiny to give life to existence.
There is still no essence.
I waft around you; yours is the nape
I caress, yours the lungs I fill.
When you open the door, you disappear.
Is this destiny, is this choice?
I have nowhere to go, I have no purpose
without things to breathe me.
You feel estranged from yourself,
from windows, doors, mirrors, reflections,
your own eyes in glass. I crystallize
when you cease to believe I am true,
that it is my essence that fills you.
Your breath stops. I shine in your chest.
Your lungs have no strength to break me.