the mirror that you made
only out of your own self-reflection,
is that what you know yourself to be?
is this really first-person,
discovering person?
is recognition an adequate wardrobe for presence?
can I ever get out of my own way
and let myself just be?
is internal commentary my only emotional entourage?
am I ever out of character
without self as audience?
aren’t we all broken mirrors,
put back together?
is life just forever savage
without the glue and missing parts?
was I ever whole
and then there was birth?
does self-consciousness have any original parts?
why do I feel like a marionette
to a consensus mob attending?
somewhere on me I am an implant.
the rest of me has been grafted on.
I am a double-agent with amnesia.
so I am only playing along.
once I get back to original cause,
I’m over this pretend
and I am out of here without a glance
and moving on . . .
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