Drowned in the mirror
Where reflected image stirs
The features of my face
Pivoted in depths of nights.
Rivers in the flow
Shipwrecked in sand
Purposeful dark dreams
Shadows chasing a song
In satiated amorous hands.
Taking heed in glories of earth
A passing images held by wrist
Dedicated firstly to passing wind
And then to the gathering mist.
A poem is a poem, what else could be real?
It is there, all in all, and nothing more to steer.