A mirror, a mirrored edge.

I am nothing but a vagrant, and a
hobo always
with the tramping, no noir hinge
on which we intuit  a solution.
He could say we are a slaughterhouse,
child-brides who mark, hate
and work braile into our speech. His vanity
unquestioned.
I could say no, no, not possible
and hear the response so clearly in it
is not. can / will never be.
Profiles, busts, elemental! you shout. A migraine
always on my left brain, spanish conquistadors
marking time and a salute to the Weimar,
a chancellor I hear.

In factual error
the sun mists on the horizon towards me
an ethereal concept which is
coming my way.
I duck, a mistake for which I hear giggles,
derision, my own conscience
like an echo chamber or mirrored house
with distorted images of myself roaring,
gnashing, causing general disquiet. Me with horns.
Without the smile.
I'm telling you it isn't where you are
and that it's why. A question and concept
in one we never see.