Distance
06/01 2022
Distance, distance as it goes
And I keep still, a glove
On the worldly, weary hand
Delicate, so delicate, that hand
Too delicate to suddenly turn belly up
That the truth that follows
Wouldn't understand its own reflection.
My name is my own yet my word owns me,
With a foot upon the bar I lean over and whisper.
That amber liquid turns an ominous black,
And I watch the moon out the window, too satisfied.
Pretending is the economy of the non-ethereal reality
The players keep their solemn word;
Reality being but the game they play for themselves
In the theater of many vacuous words.
Hear the greats from the podium,
And the folk overpowering them from below.
The revision of reality told
Only to keep themselves sane, all the same.
For what is the person without infinity?
A shell, waiting for the animal.