The mirror, I. The prism, you.

James Long
Jan 5, 2022
1 min read

Updated: Jan 12, 2022

Poems made her smile

or cry

I petaled them in truth

She love them dearly

Subtle lie

Words made warm and blue

My lovely gazer

Mirror true

We cannot hold in thought

No touch in stanza

What to breathe?

The winter wind or rot?

To love is not a metaphor

A poem, just a thrill

And I was more than echoes

Hear

Or a fire on the hill

Recent Posts

See All

Tohu Wa-Bohu and htuklam

Small feet mine, uncalloused and unlassoed Plod scuffled and pawed the halls a'night Adorned in silence The filigree of dreams Nameless and holy so In shoes I moved about the sidewalks

Letters

Again again again again Agon eye loose the plot Indus tree, us unmade What deserts In habit? My soul? Pulled telosward to the wait Of gun in hand Of exhaustion lu

Atman

You cannot hold the light of day Only hold you hand within it Grasping shadows Releasing Rebirths Renews As every heart before you...

Comments