I face me today and

there’s dark portent

in and surrounding the

circles my eyes do rend.

Off focus and bruised is

my straight line of sight

that spectacularly plots

to start cunningly conive.

Behind my eyes there are

places that are too weak.

Jaded and torn I know

it’s easy for me to weep.

What I can believe in,

from some stories told,

are not the truthes I

believe in in my soul.

I am no virgin to the

notions that exact pain.

It’s why my translation

often turns out to be vain.

I am a thief I do steal

looks with curious desire.

Then pretend I do to

forget what reddens my ire.

Me I question myself

questions with great fears.

Am I myself I ask myself

releasing heartfelt tears.