Two Selves: The Black And White Horses Of Plato

what you remember
is that time when you look at yourself in the mirror
inside a room you lock the door
you hear voices you suspect there is a demented spirit
with you, ah, the usual
closing of the eyes, to start with, it is like you are in a position
to start the race, like a gazelle hurdling a forest, you hear a bang
it is a gun, you see smoke to the sky,
you hear people cheering, there are no colors, just darkness
it is twilight and then
you open your eyes, this is not real, there is no crowd
there are no cheers, you only hear voices
and now when you are fully awake
you see a face,
and you feel so much pity for it
how you have harmed it
caused it pain that it does not deserve
there is a wall between two people
you do not penetrate it, each wants to leave each other
but there is no segregation, there are no departures here,
no sound of planes or trains, no horns no bells
it is just the plain silence of pity
enveloping the room locking the room
your face still wanting to escape
those bars
in the mirror.

you repeat, 'What a pity! '
you only have sympathy for the self
that you have never completely

this is the reality, you are not
and never shall be the perfect you.

pockmarked, scarred, twisted
gutted, ashed...


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