Pulled out from the sea, my fluid, mercurial shadow
writhing amongst projected, shattered mirrors of reflection,
collecting the shards to solve my own puzzle
on an island earthed from a self-created Pandora’s box.
And within is a bottomless heart,
blanketed in voids, Infinite stretches of fluid, lurid imagination,
age-thick hysterias creeping into a half-life being – whose dead epilogue
ponders its vain attempt towards a vague new chapter,
nonplussed by an absurd vagary slowly become quiddity,
an old constant now become porcelain-filled illusion.
The genealogies of love bicker in a family affair within the halls of hope and reason,
proclaiming an open secret, even though I dare speak her name.
Zephyr tracing skin, glass turning into sand,
the shoreline displays a peculiar image,
a Rashomon effect of pareidolia or clarity –
two ducks in a pond swimming blissfully in unison,
or the lone mallard chasing nothing more than a dead sea fruit.