I am hiding out
in the woods of facts.
Forrest for the trees
can’t see me.
I am wearing camouflage,
outfitted with whatever
you want to hear.
I am wearing an invisible vest
filled with the explosives
of low self esteem.
I am a double agent
working for the army of one
in a war for self worth.
I infiltrate into the world
of meaningful lives,
posing as a normal.
I have learned the skills
of a sniper as if on a mission.
Everything I sense
is really only mirroring me.
Self-recognition is breath or poison,
life giving or life taking away.
The woods is always growing
up top and also rotting away
down below.
I long to be in the canopy
but linger in the decay.
Sunlight is golden,
basking in warmth.
This shade is self-dialogue,
a darkened mirror,
with indirect lighting.
There is always some breeze
and consequently
dappled direct light,
as hear say, gets through.
I climb up on trunks of trust
and also search for openings,
patches of heartfelt pasture.
It is there I strip down
and take wing.
To fly above the forest
without spite or necessity of deed.
That is the outing I yearn for . . .
(perch, per chance,
on a small branch.
Out and up in the open,
maybe a twig of singular divinity
will catch my eyes as inviting.
Rest assured will come
transformative for certain,
for all of us, inviting . . .)
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