The writing on the wall
The fighting in the crawl
I see the tears on the paved white painted gold walls
I feel the sorrow in the tears
I grasp hold to the converse of quality
The righting of my wrongs
The sighting of my endeavors
I weigh the plant's stem
I hold the ants' struggle
I have the anthropology of derided opinions
I am the paradox of the human race
I am the immaculate with natural perception of flaws
The imaginary illusions of persuasion
The self-effacing moments
I reflect the mirror of dark light
I position my dry keepings
I marinate, simmering and sizzling in the ­secreting butters of dependency
I am the illusive misconceptions
I keep my master plan in these genteel skin-held bones of mine
I settle in my servitude
I work the idioms of L. Seneca for the Younger
I liberate
The pledge of confinement
The poet with no adjectives
The mom's empty pockets
The gimmick inside the body
I imitate myself in your reflection
I erupt vigorously like Kilauea
I embedded my roots in my chest
Just so I could confess my means to obsess and caress myself in my own state
I am the karma of voluptuary actions
I characterize
the poise of peace
the differences at hand
the understanding of Me
I am the codes that encrypt my deadness of life
I am the Life that you philosophize about
I am the truth that you allege to speak
I am your reflection