Of you, I make a mirror
For my perverse vanity.
I imagine your words
Resolving into a portrait
Of me.

Of me, I make an anti hero;
A misguided pseudo angel
Whose very touch destroys
The fragile reconstruction
Of you.

Convinced by your doubt
In my motives, I lost
Any ability I had to
Do any good. I am
Powerless to help anyone
I care about.

Perhaps you bring out
My masochistic streak,
Or perhaps I am merely
Searching for another rod
For my back, and believe
I can fashion one from
Your enigmatic words.

Although I have written this
Before, it is not becoming
Any less true, and the
Confusion I feel is
Refusing to unravel or allow
Itself to be seen.

01/06/2007

Posted on 02/19/2007
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince