what is it you really see
when first your eyes open
peering through the light
of the slowly ascending sun
falling from the mountains
to kiss warmth across
your glowing cheeks?
surely it is not me you see
leaning needfully over you
ever hopefully attendant
blending my lips to yours
it is not my face at all
but a variant thereof
unconsciously formed
know that in the sorrow
of your declining lips
there is but a specter of
me
and in the mournful lines,
in the cracks of your vision
that pierce my rueful being
there is a me that is not
me
in your grieving sight
am i a shadow of truth
cringing coldly in corners
fearful of the damning
light
longing for the blackest night
and the harrowing cry
of the wailing bean nighe
