How strange to recognize within the prison wrapped
In flesh the key that is the fruit of love; alone
I find myself lamenting constantly this form,
This Protean existence powered into change
By whirlwinds of mirages raging through my mind;
A sickness, an eternal unawareness of
A part of my own being. So I know that I
Do not know, cannot know about this body mine.
The liability of my perception is
A curious thing, I and others in this house
Of glass: dysmorphia; in friends appearing as
The madness, to beholders though as life in death.
I very often wonder what aversion those
Ascetics felt within their skin, aversion for
Their own skin, life, the denigration they endure
To fall just short of their ideal. The bitter fruit:
Assumption that a closer perfect form exists
But not assumption of it. Never. Likelier
As well to languish in the gulf between the dream
And harshest existential recognition of
Reality, distorted and deranged by the
Proximity to that desire. The ones who lived
Impossibly, did they receive their vision in
The madness of their need for that perfection? Did
They find escape from their contempt for life that's less
Than it in fantasy or flawed existence? Did
They live? And did they find the seedling of that dream
That's buried in our waking world; could they have found
The key of love that flesh and mind prostrate themselves
Before? And living in its love dissolve the deep
Impossibility of reconciling those
Two worlds: the one of ever wretched almost; and
The other: wholeness, a gestalt acceptance that
Its worth is not defined by sum, and as such loved.
Some surely did; if they could do it, then could I?
A place for my poems 