The Seer
I’m walking into a room made up images. These are all images of myself I assumed them from my figurative past, Now they're gathering dust on the shelf. I prowl the gallery of portraits Searching for the one I miss the most, But they’re all cut from the same cloth, Rings around the trunk of my soul. Maybe they remind me when the bark was a little smoother, when the breeze blew a little harder, the more sensitive times. But I can't help but feel it within me; something cuts all the way through. The stillness of the seer to his subject of sight, cast out along a pier into omnipresent light. These are where the memories were made, in simple, silent observation. Birdsong hemorrhages like intestines into silence in moments better forgotten. by Peter PageFeatured image legacy
