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William Verbaud

(Dec.26,1980 / Nowhere, NJ)


If my reflection be not absent, but untrue,
am I to assume that I be dead?
A mirror be but a visual tool for the living,
But a tool for eyeing transcendent souls is lost among poet’s
To love, to hate, to fear to prey is faux living’s fog,
But moonlights’ smile upon the tortured, half dead gazes.
I toast to vanity’s perpetual utopia,
Peace is found in insanity.
I do not evoke the rational,
but am martyred in the absence of reality’s façade.
For in mirrors exists eternal Purgatory,
Beautiful sight is my whore.
I am dead upon the world or
is, the world dead upon I?
I shall consult the mirror,
but which one?

Encompassing the vast highways of the senses,
loss of the mind and the extinguishing of one soul deity,
in the universe of desires and love and loneliness; will result in the
loss of direction,
To who does validity answer,
does the eye rapture?
Mirrors play in grey leaves trembling in the autumn’s deceitful mental plight?
But existence’s neck;
exposed, naked, as cool breezes pass living rivers.
The light again peers joyously,
as red hues pierce the sky,
You moonlight damned un-blinded,
the gaul to curse fog’s guise.

Peering into the mirror,
I see serenity’s wretchedness,
and peering into the fog I see reality’s despondent glare,
Fog’s infinitely copious nature of ill repute,
Pierced by red mirrors of pragmatic, hypocritical, dear friends.

Submitted: Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Edited: Friday, April 15, 2011
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