door red porphyr is,
but I, vainly clothed,
send my shadows dancing
through a guarded glow.
My walls are paper - thick
as rock, and maybe Plato had it right
or maybe I just fear to talk
(In the moment of the crisis forced
an image of the swollen
mind torments me
until I withdraw
trembling) by the fireside I
pump pump
pump my pen
sweating earth pigments,
burnt bone,
ground calcite,
the ashes
of the heart that moves me.
I am not I no more nor am I wholly one.
Read me like a hidden painting,
awful in the dark,
and hear the glaring handprint sneer:
how petty, your tale of me!
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