Under the looking glass
I loitered, Underneath the barren canopy Of a wintry weeping willow tree, Eying its slender branches and tendrils; The lungs' blood vessels.
Chin up, and vision Wandering a thousand yards, staring, When I saw it forming, That great eye.
It was all a matter of perspective, shifting As I traipsed and watched Curling branches interlock.
I gazed inside that great eye, Hoping to find Something worth Wasting my time, But all I saw was an endlessly empty sky. Nothing. Nothing Notable, or to entertain a thought. Yet, so, I imagined gazing through From the other side.
Perhaps, then, I Was under the looking glass.
I, as much spectator, as the spectated, Yet therein undefined and uninterpreted, Still, witnessed, As any other part of Earth.
Therein, I found my worth.
I stepped aside, So, the perspective shifted once more. Gone, was the eye, as if it had never been, But the magic inside, that had it created, Remained.
I smiled, Happy to realize This wasn't lost on me.
I thought that magic, Humanity.
--- 28-12-2024, M.A. Tempels ©
