WATERMARK

An impression made by a depression.
A mark of position by its disposition.

On a pole: the water's height.
On paper seen through the light,
its weight; therefore, its might.

(It's nothing to me since I'm no tree
awaiting to give my life for free
except the cost of living herbaceously.)

So, when looking into the mirror of a prince
and seeing a jackass, why do I wince?
Is the pain more a reflection
of my blissful projection,
or a sobering detection
of my woeful direction?

Is that, then, the watermark of me?
And if so, do I stop and cease to be?
Perhaps carry on foolishly
hoping that giants are really
just normal folk who see
better by standing on me?


Or am I being the most of what's best,
or the least of all the rest?
Is my Self being true as Socrates posits
or locked away in a stale, dingy closet?
Unable to change...
or even rearrange
the broken pieces
of what once was?

04/03/2003

Posted on 04/03/2003
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan