I’m said to be smart but
I don’t feel it’s so;
The fires have died and
The feeblest glow
Is coming now from the
Place where I had been:
The weakest of voices
And frailest of men
The song I’ve been singing
Is old and obscure;
That to which I’m clinging
Has promised no cure —
The lines in the mirror,
My face and my wrists
Are making it clearer
That naught here persists
I call out for help from
The night’s blackened cave;
I long for the hand that
Can soothe or can save
And so overwhelmed and
So panicked am I
Each moment I live
Is just one more
I die
I really like the Duality of this poem, the inside outside, self perception versus others perception. While reading this piece I found it somehow hopeful in the self realization that would ultimately lead to the healing of the “One.”
Refreshing. The ones who don’t know they are beautiful, are. The same truth applies to intellect. You managed to create from empty places. I’m jealous.