I’ve been reading Leaves of Grass (by Walt Whitman) for days. Big sucker for poetry lately. Actually, always have been but lately I’m immersing myself in it. Soaking in all it’s magic.
Big fan of this (not Walt, though)
Who/What/Where
With a curiosity of something beyond the surface,
directly into mine own, the iris,
the center where soul is not questioned,
where elsewhere could not hide emotions
and ensures reality in the scheme of things.
Something flickers behind another’s mirrors
but what of your own?
What of a mirror reflected in a mirror?
At a glance distant, yet familiar
the one all called “me.”
This time not a glance but a stare,
an inquisitive scrutiny,
This time forcing the lasers of life,
which would penetrate a foreign mirror,
back into your own.
Things collapse around the edges,
blurred vision takes over,
except for the one hiccup where you
completely fall into your own center.
Except someone else is there
instead of the “you” that you expected.
You would have things to say to eachother
that would change both your worlds
if you could stay longer.
But your eyes and other senses will not allow it,
will not allow perception to break,
perhaps cannot fathom how.
And this new Being? Entity? Enigma?
(because you’re not quite sure what you’re seeing,
or feeling)
gets snatched away.
No goodbyes,
Not even a full concept of recognition,
and it’s “me” again,
and it’s a curious relief,
your reflection stays true,
but as you back away
“Who else is there?”
seems less like insanity,
and more like a mystery worth solving.
- L. Gardener
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thoughtcloud posted this
