.
.
In a fit of pique,
That lasted
From her birth
Until her death,
My mother destroyed
All of the affection,
All of the care,
All of the reminders,
Of her despair,
That she could find.
She destroyed much else.
Those few bits of herself
And her love
That survived,
Did so by being
Unknown,
And so,
Lost to her grasp.
I was not real,
Only a representation
Of failed dreams.
I was not real,
Only an unredeemable
Wasted effort.
When I have
Occasionally
Seen the odd surviving
Image of myself,
I am amazed.
I was not ugly
As I remember myself,
Long ago.
As I danced
I could dance
Beauty into being.
I would generate an
Aura of Beauty
That deceived everyone.
Anyone who saw this
Dancing illusion
Would believe that Beauty
Existed and I could
Hide my essential
Inescapable ugliness
Within that beautiful illusion.
I danced a magic spell
To mesmerize all judgment.
I did not recognize
My Self
As my own illusion.
.
.
Bear 01.01.2014
.
.
.
bearspawprint 