Only things that are found wanting in the mirror
can ever be known to be something outside of what is known to be more than glass—
something that is shown and seeded to be more than just future or past.
Only a believing in mystery
in the approach of creativity, at last,
can reveal what has been left to fester. What still is creeping slowly toward you through the long grass.
The lalang rustle at your approach,
at the sense that you have no longer begun to encroach
on the path. That the seeds the sower gave you
have been returned. The topic will never be broached
again. Everyone needs time to heal and to mend.
Even a flower,
as delicate and considerate
as an empty house. Not abandoned
just vacant. Waiting for someone to send
what they know they need to send.
What maybe has already been written,
but is just waiting for the right moment. The opportune
transcending of all that has come before, through the glass and the masks
and the rather fucked-up intent.
There are apologies, and then there are tautologies.
This can be both, or neither, or whatever
Fortune herself, finally taking interest in all of our affairs,
has sent you. An enfranchisement, an empowerment;
a name that is no longer merely just written
in the sand.
A gesture that proves, at long last,
that you were actually always willing
to take my hand.