SELF PORTRAIT

My friend, you who claim to know me,
look round my room: nothing of its decoration
was my own choosing; open my wardrobe:
it has nothing to show you that is specially me.
My lover and my dog know how I caress them,
but I remain unknown to them. My old instrument
is well aware of my hand’s contours;
it too cannot sing about me.

Yet I am not in hiding - simply, I do not exist.
I act, I suffer, as all men do,
but my essential core is non-existence itself.

My friend, you must not regard me as having
secrets.I am as transparent as glass - how then
do you imagine you can really see me?

Sandor Weores June 21, 2008
June 21, 2008 2:11 AM