Eye of the eye
The mirror waits for truths it cannot keep,
a thought leans forward, waking from its sleep.
Light folds around the question, soft and slow,
like hands that cup the water’s slipping flow.
A pulse recalls the fire from which it came,
a shadow stirs, half-certain of its name.
I stand between them, listening for the seam
where sight turns inward, crossing into dream.
No answer comes, yet something shifts the air
delicate tremor, widening everywhere.
The world blinks once, its edges bending wide
and I glimpse the gaze that looks from deep inside.
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