For one to write about me, would be a
          concussion of optimistic reflections.
My words conceal intentionally
                 inner reflections that even
I haven't gazed upon.

I'm a fragment of a picture wrote upon,
             but then bleached with new horizons
                                    that are neither rising or setting.  


Conclusions of my thoughts are like a hurricane in
    the confines of a daisy.
Bright but the beauty never
really placed singularly
                but chained together
in a forced marriage of convenience.

I'm neither what one would expect
or the conclusion of a vast dissection
         to collect
                evidence to my meaning and function.
I'm a verse that moves further than
                             when the words finish finitely.