As my appearance--seen invisible,
what more my disappearance?
in the midst of everyday's
that pass with no science,
no absence of the presents
of the vanity among wise,
of the confidence among stupids
and the lunacy of my lies;
drifted by the wind,
buried by the ashes
of these fires I started
like a cyclone that washes;
only silent, unseen;
for in secrets I seem
to be valued by mine
despite endings and fiends;
but still compounded and touched,
sometimes scratches and throws
unto someone who's not
believed by the most;
am I some walking shame,
or a mirrored, slipping ghost?
only to perch by the nights
but hunted when I showed;
'thought invisible was I;
but in secrets I breathe
to not trigger their fixations
of my musings I heed;
though nowhere's an escape
but my recluse poetry,
in my eyes so invisible
unless death be my diary.
