Fingertip
dipped
in white
powder,
My visage
drawn
with black
grease paint,
Who am I now?
Have I been the same?
What validity is there
to your lover's claims?
I've become the goblin king,
so who am I to want to heal myself,
when my self and its persistent sick
continue to do their poisoning?
Buck naked,
drenched
with sweat,
dancing.
My brain
quenched
by my
purpose.
Move and move.
Strike, tow, bend,
twist, and snake the lines.
There's a truth beneath the truth
that first surfaces, the truth as it exists
without a spin from prying minds.
To obscure the err to serve the ego
splits your merger with heavy veils.
Have you no shame?
I must know shame,
and accept shame's
innate dark side,
where shame is fruitless.