The mirror speaks its truths

But what heart can be derived

From aesthetics alone?

I know that I grow old

Even if I do not grow wise

Even if I am identical

In every notable respect

My telomeres still

Abbreviate themselves

And my shadow still

Grows crooked

No matter what posture

I chance to effect.


My dreams do not adhere

To linear conventions

I am still the same princess

The same child bride

With her neat rows of cabbages.

I still harvest my minions

From the swollen borders

Of my prolific imagination

I still get lonely and never

When it suits me.


Life and death are interchangeable

I am infirm in both versions

Only in the former am I smiling

I still have my bones and a soul

That resurrects itself in forms

To numerous to articulate

Perhaps we are all

The very same entity

But of a time and dimension

Sufficiently compatible

For intersection


7 responses to “Dichotomy

  1. Your writing is probably a better judge on how you change as time goes by…reflects on thoughts changing, styles tweaked here and there…ever changing …change is what keeps one young. Great poem, Yves!

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