I See My Face

I see my face
my contorted face, it sees me too.
Pelted from the canvas of this limpid stream,
a ghost haunting the ply of freewill
garnered from the prying of the soul,
the eavesdropping on its monologue,
goaded on by the pangs of life’s flay,
minting mettle in me.

I have seen aches,
they too, me. We have rocked west to east
In a maze of count, like the matins bell,
clapper peeving the sound bow,
noising vespers in the countryside,
tolling the knell of naivety;
mulishly clinging like hasp on clasp
and lice on a hound,
awakening a glacial rove in the draining
of the venom of fear
and the transfusion of grit.

But this weight,
this weight of chiselling
etched on my neonatal frame from life’s tuition,
sculpting greatness on a stalky soul
and trickling these cleansing rites,
ferrying to the lustre of greatness,
are but sullying and breaking
to this consciousness of the known.

What are you looking for?