The only thing creation lacks is me.
Oh, I see myself in others, in the break
Before we blur together as one.
These mysteries have been explained
By those who themselves were told:
We are all exactly the same!
Why then do all these ghost faces hover,
Along the road that doesn't lead to me,
As the embodiments of the real, to tell
Such pretty lies? Like time can replace vague eternity,
Or the statue not the sculptor turns to stone ...
Any such tales turn true when there is no one
To hang on the story. A someone
Would question how those with different views
Could still think the same way they do.
The branches outside say more, yet they agree.
They wear my thought like a clean glove,
Nothing unexpected, yet always a surprise.
