behind the rock that can not be rolled away,
scratching and digging for air and light.
Not I that howls in the darkness,
from the other side of the great stone.
There is always a they to the them .
A list too long;
a cache of names not worth 'membering.
Symmetry and Syzygy.
The mirror splits sideways,
refracting and reflecting,
debunking and dejecting,
responding and relating,
detaching and displacing.
Spitting image around.
do I let thee in?
Can I hold my ground?
What will rise from behind that stone,
Come forth from within that tomb?
Taught to be an Angel,
but sinning is so much more fun.
And even though I shouldn't live long,
A Great Languish...
A Great Fission...
But it's not really me.
Nobody to own the wreck, left.