The picture of myself is thus:
fading, losing color, changed from smile to frown,
gazing back my eyes, alien, hurt.
Where my pain is, where my hurt is;
There my heart is—
my soul resteth beneath.
The impenetrable dot that is in me.
My window, my haze, the old warmth of the days—
is a sink now, a gutter of funk.
Every dandellion is plucked by one up above;
whereas everything down below is just for show.
Heartstrings unto heartstrings.