The truth is somewhere between myself and the mirror,
between the real boy and the reflection of my seeringly false brood.
I am passing the wasting hours by indulging in myself:
my wandering loneliness, my vague ambition
forever grasping further than it can reach.
My dear friend, I beseech you
To return my indulgence and lapse into divulgence
Tell me that the shimmering stars gratuitously align
That the swimming nebula was never anything but mine
That the black hole in my periphery is merely stuff of science fiction,
That my rhyming couplets contain neither questionable
The boy watches his reflection carefully for a reaction.
It stares back blankly.
That’s because they are obviously both the same person,
and this poem is just a shit, long-winded metaphor.
I just ate a yoghurt.