How I Look
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
My Amtrak races between mountains
and rivers, my traces, my inner spaces,
my dawnings, my inner longings.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
I leaf through fading pages
of crumbling books bound
with passion strings,
broken by wounded fissures
of regret.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
Others declare me a man or fool,
perhaps the father they never knew,
perhaps the boss who fired them,
or just the impostor they always hated.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
I slowly abandon their puzzling
projectiles, their momentary mocks.
Such a child am I, even the petals
of new love go unseen.
I see how I look inside out,
not how I look outside in.
I take the long way alone,
my feet heavy with clay,
I wander the deep gloam,
my mortal vessel, my only home.
There is luminous grass beyond.
There I will rest my head in
the resplendence and comprehend
that inside and outside
are just a revolving door.
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2025
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