Surfaces Poem by GRANT FRASER

Albeit,

to scratch
the surface
of time,

just enough
to catch self's
blurry image,

with 'you'
pouring in,
incessantly,

such an odd
shaped vessel,
of a human,

and when full
each psychic cup,
goes up, up,

transcendental
estrangement,
' life's mirage '

usually just 3,
things that multiply,
in the mind storm,

a feint disappearance,
some sort of return..
grain of conscience,

yet some of it disappears!
is that unknowing?
some final crest..

you move closer
to define scratched light,
jagged night spell,

each is it's own button,
with a dark switching,
on or off, casting each look!