Captive to an enigma of mirrors
where infinity is seen to grow nearer
but delicate fingers stop at cold glass.
Escaping Plato's Cave but reaching impasse,
perception eludes reality's grasp.
As wise men sit patient and cowards gasp
intelligence hammers at mimicking bars
unavailing, retreating with only scars.

Self projections linger 'cross barren plains
mind forgotten freedom, shackled in chains,
hungry men compose spoken free verse
bellowed harmoniously unrehearsed;
but only one voice reality sings
I am the first of the mirror box kings.