I hate sometimes.
Such a powerful word this feeling creates.
It acts out of my will in the ever present,
but bends to it in time.
Still.
I see it work upon others.
They move to a flow my image commands.
They speak from a place my stature demands.
Up high or down low, even eye to eye.
The first thing one sees of me is me.
Not a word I have spoke,
Yet they act as if I am already written.
Oh well. Guess I better live until I die then.
No harm.
No foul.
One thought on “This visage of mine,”