Self and Other.

The poet
Is nothing,
traded it’s existence
for the gift
to craft illusions
that become real with time.
A stray thought before birth
until given
form,
using hidden rays
within
to reflect across the fractured mirror
granting a kaleidoscope
of ancestral truth.
The soul of a poet is
everything. Dried fruit,
abandoned shells,
and immortality.
Born with amnesia
yet reminiscing about
veracious emotions before the womb.
It speaks for
the elements and divinity
but not itself.
For it knows not
of self,
but only the
experience of other
when in resonance.
The soul of a poet
does not know the poet
nor does the poet know the soul
each given the task
to not discover
the origin of stars
but
illuminate
the constellation of hearts
as two strangers
alone
confined to a rotting tree
watch the shadow of heaven
devour the
last of youthful light.
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