confluence

Hocus Focus

What is my focus?

Why am I here,

and not there

or nowhere?

 

Am I qualified to answer such questions,

as a shadow blind to its own existence?

Who exists?

I, or the guy

casting characters

with empty hands

traipsing in solitary confinement

by the backlit parted door?

 

Forget this self-

abnegation to a muttering fool

that dictates my every move

in obtuse turns and stops.

He listens to the trees and the breeze,

yet he turns his back on me

like I’m a painful past

he runs from on a treadmill.

 

What is my focus?

And why am I stuck in the room

with this dysphoric mess

deaf, dumb, and blind to me?

Sure, I may lose myself in shades

or creep obliquely behind his back,

even split into a menagerie of actors

bored, without direction or a script,

improvising to pass

the blanching corrosion of time.

 

For better or worse,

till death do we part,

I am a part of you

like you are a part of me

so don’t pretend you and I

can live this story separately,

as a shadow puppet without a master

and a master without an illusion.

 

What is my focus?

the confluence of light, dark

and the body in motion between

wandering wondering

what the peculiar shadows

could be whispering.

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