See my youth, unkempt and uncouth,
everywhere, like truth, or is it reflection?
That would mean a mirror be poised,
to catch my image as a boy, then
turn it ‘round in my mind’s eye
to frame a fearful symmetry.
I wrote a letter to the Devil last night
for I knew he was coming some day
and I thought, instead of shaking his hand,
I’d hand him my missive, written in cursive,
and send him on his way.
I sat for hours with pen in hand,
in the dim limelight of a single lamp
wondering exactly what I wanted to say.
I sit in an Idiot’s trap,
repeating senseless things,
thinking far too much,
beyond the point, if it exists,
of where an answer sits,
irrefutably correct,
invisible to my brand of blind;
the kind recalls with clarity,
but when it must, it cannot see.
