My face won’t stay fixed in the mirror,
Like that song by Fleetwood Floyd
On the wormholes of identity;
There’s only comfort in being someone else.
Here they welcome any selfness one cares to
Haul their way, with that chill acceptance,
Which only means that even the most
Enlightened quirks are condemned.
What comes of our witnessing
When we are the dream
And never, ever the dreamer?
