Perspective

Thinking I had picked
an apple from an orange tree,
I placed you apart
within my frayed wicker.

Thinking I had made
my home inside your
illustrious penthouse,
I would look over your deep oceans,
over the dwarfed city,

over seas of modernity.

But Bitter hopes
like spoiled blueberries
stick to my palate at the realization
of my false view.

Broken windows,
illusory crush.
You showed me a menagerie,
a fruition,
that only growing feelings
could produce.

Lapping at my dismay,
introspect and outrospect
of my flaws,
for there must be some,
any!

But in the end,
all I have is myself.

The Self.
Our worst enemy,
incessant emotional epilepsy.

But beneath it all,
I am not deformed,
I am not maimed,
abnormal,
or dead.

Inside or Out,
all I see in myself is
pure beauty.

I wrench free from
my stale fantasies
and emotions.
They remain only
to be digested
as life experience.

They remain to exit
as a distant memory of my youth,
a collective growth deep inside
like a Great Arbor of olives
ripe for Eternity.