photo from pixabay

Illusion and death

He is a red flower in the white vase
On the window sill,
Seeing himself all the time;
Seeing his own petals crawling with bugs
And falling…
He is a red flower in a white vase
On the window sill,
Seeing himself all the time,
But not seeing himself clearly.
Sometimes there is rain,
And he believes his face is getting distorted,
Sometimes the sun devours his reflection
And he believes he’s going invisible…
He sees himself,
But not always clearly;
Sometimes there is a bug on the pane,
Or some kind of dirt.
Sometimes people look in,
Sometimes there is a crack,
Or a glittering scratch
From the leafless branch
That gently rubs
To show romance.
One day someone will shut the window drapes,
And he’ll believe himself dead
While he is still alive…


Head full of branches I have a head full…