the mirrortree

With mirrors for leaves, the desert tree’s a kaleidoscope of me; light from blazing tongues that leap from the campfire — and fall on: an ear here, a stiff upper lip there, one blue and one black eye. A beating heart. A honeyed tongue. A mind. My own trinity — I catch a glimpse of a pendant, once given as forget-me-not.

Alone on this odyssey, I probe&I probe&I probe: am I no more than the sum of those parts

that fall to the ground in this breeze to form a jigsaw puzzle of me? Missing pieces, lost — in the absinthian ether? Left there too long — was it complacency or ennui? — they begin to rot like Hallward’s portrait.

Discarded twigs and leaves ground to dust trickle through the hourglass into the mould of a statue which I can only hope will be complete on the day of my death.

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