Otro
Brittle to the touch
So fragile these walls
that are put up to hide
happiness in exchange for anonymity.
On the outside looking in
Cannot fathom the reasons for such insecurities
I, the mirror, adore what i see
The other, the refugee, squatting in front of me.
What figments of our psyche, what imagination
Are these metaphoric arthropods under skin
Shifting about, changing shape and contorting
Consuming the Tangible. Excreting Fiction.
Shed shells of these askewed you's
Be perplexed no more
Cease projecting worst on others eyes
Take deep breaths again.
Tool-Parabola, 46-2
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