Slides move by-
Not trees, but bricks and pillars-
The closer the faster,
But for that within.
I'm awkwardly conscious
Of the cautious woman besides
As I look outside.
The winter rain, damping, depresses.
Still, it draws.
The man in front seems to posses the artist's eyes-
The young Moral, stead-fast.
I'm trying too hard....
The wet glass pane, cosying up, shrinks my soul-
But my self-reflection betrays me.
Too much of "I"
Unable to move, to create.
Something's stuck in my aeolian harp.
Self-conscious of being self-conscious,
The selves pile in,
And slip away from beneath.
But then, the glow never was there.
The mirror cannot show you your eyes closed.
Still talking myself into it.
Conscious of secret lives within,
The mind spins inside,
Renewing more lives.