(in a black mirror)

 those silent screams are making me brain-deaf


this immaculate spirit you proclaim -
prevaricator of intrepid ‘art’ …

how can you distinguish your Self (the ish of it,
the vanity) in a black mirror?

the rainbowed warrior, undaunted in the face of adversity,
mounting insurmountable odds;
a heart and soul, seeking unwavering love and inscrutable divinity;
can these support the weight of reason?

a muse, conscripted, whipped into un-expiring dedication
to fill a hollow desire…
these absurdities you spill onto ashamed pages,
and, by gall, label them ‘poem’!

I would destroy you remorselessly if I could,
and all of Creation and Imagination would thank me.

I rant, and I rage, and my madness has no boundary.
and yet, in moments of clarity,
I still wonder: who are you?




are you me?