Spitting image, windows of the soul
My firmly planted foot always remains as the bottom one; certainly stable support sustains
a tool rotting under a soon to be sinking sun.
Without mind being in first of my character,
Proof hands a signature towards what it tries, yet in wasted efforts; Laboring for inventions that only time may gift and deliver;
False lives imitating within burning eyes,
stealing that lone light hued from the mirroring witnesses to a life;
Is it the reflection on the pairing souls glass that decays my fight
or is it stalled with the bait of the lie fairing into what is true; choices and fates that are mine?
From whose perspective may I speak?
The witness of my life
Or the material thing that is I?
Yours?
The image representing my perception of you?
Or the echoed reflection back, from the time you noticed from me and then again onto you?
If it is you, staring at what shine depicts among my glossed eyes, is it possible for you to see me, past the view of my attention liaised between reality and truth?
And if I'm not directly seen, nor remain able to be labeled as a private witness to anything, I feel the need to ask for whom do I perform and of what reason is my seeing seen?
Dear alleged watcher, may I be but a type of clock meant for the times that have meant a lot to you?
With hands ticking in twitches that ache to become beyond the notice of processing?
Or are we simply two sets of eyes searching for authority that comes ever before identity?
If my individualities struggle can become corrupted by the world it has been cast to form within, is effort of any kind lost to be misapplied to what cannot be forced?
Only time may gift and deliver.
Copyright © Noah Piet | Year Posted 2026
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