I am not you.
You stand, you sit,
and you untie yourself
on a canvas of pain and truth.
I escape.
Behind surrealistic scenes,
you strike reality;
I flutter fantasy.
“No! ”
eyebrows straighten,
your silent self rises.
“Yes…”
I manage to forge
a smile,
in every flash of blue.
I call that “hope”,
knowing you name it
“mirage”.
This late version becomes one of April 2012 Challenge Winning poems.
