it is but a puddle, which contains so strongly my veracity -
a naked pain, which inflicts like a cursed spoke.
and though the sea may be livid, I have been inured to its anger.
you must not believe the sight of such torment.
see not the gossamer of my skin, nor the stiff white edges.  
hear not my howls which echo behind the black door.
feel not the warmth of Blood stitched upon white sheets.
hold not my aching limbs for they may never come undone.
lift your neck and heavy head, hold steady your breath,
to let your eyes rest upon me and see the truth
as a tentative gift, so that everyone may watch as
I inhale Misery, feather-quiet creatures wait on me
for the Rapture is near! on unsteady feet, I rise,
careful as not to wake them, At last, I have summited,
out of this tempestuous sea,
I do not recognize myself.
there is a salt upon my lids,
where I let the angels cry unto my brow.
they come to me in this euphoria,
this window of time that had been opened
whereupon I weep, this time at their feet.
I kiss their toes and cradle in my hands their marble heels.
oh, joy! I have been awakened,
and yet, still, the mirror is clear.
where am I?
What have I become?