In mirror mocked reflection
the paradox was brought,
to eye and mind, reality,
I was not what I thought.
Or felt, or sensed, or knew
within, the truth of who
I was, for physical made
fantasy, of ageless realms
of thought. Within that
place of Self I stood,
and knew that nothing
changed, that I was always
who I was, no matter
how I aged. This body
was not what I was, nor
held a certainty, but
stood as merely costume;
the dress this world did
need. There was no change
within that held,  authentic
or exact, and image merely
shared itself; as something
to be shed. The core of Self is
ageless, the truth of Soul
no bounds, reflections are
illusions;  can hold no solid
ground. For facts are just
perception, the mind makes
what it sees, and gathers
what it knows is true;
our own veracity. To hold
unto the spiritual, the Self
which does endure, means
this is dress material;
to keep as we do need.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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One Response to Age

  1. Waltermarks says:

    I hear you. Growing older is like being dragged through a knothole backwards.

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