Poems

The Magic Mirror

Friday, March 22, 2019 (Batu Balong, Bali)
Friday, March 22, 2019 (Batu Balong, Bali)
Rainy nights are long
poured down in old-timey songs
filled with ghosts, and witches
whose scented memories
perfume the air,
heavy and humid
lingers the past,
dancing with both
my dreams and wishes

 

My head is weighted
in my guilt,
this massive ego
and its passive attempts
at aggressive control

 

Each and every day and night
I think of somebody
that I used to know,
a human blank canvas
with eyes like the ocean
reflecting the sky,
wearing hardly anything
except the kind of far away look
that isn’t a fairy tale
so much as a lie,
and I remember the passion
with which he relayed his purity
of heart, and the fervor
of instability he used
to shield his shame
buried inside of him,
I wondered
was there any magic
whatsoever, at all
or was he made up
of the exact same stuff
as everyone of us,
just the regular and
not so clever humanity:
self-serving, absorbed
and involved,
dishonest, and small,
abandoned and afraid,
and eternally,
perpetually flawed.

 

Is that what makes the magic?

 

That we are divine
little specks, and treacherous
little fucks
all at the same time?
So passionate and creative,
weak, cowardly and vengeful,
enraged and placid,
veiled and painfully obvious,
simultaneously
every moment,
so endless and so finite?

 

That we could be
or achieve anything at all,
is that the trick?

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