The door I open to who I am is not a garage
of reminisces or a book with you
as an elastic notion represented in between
stanzas, thus a hall of Mona Lisas. The door
I open is a self-song furnishing the mind’s
mansion. I observe no rules and ruin the hours.
Plato knew the poem as a sword moonlighting
as a mirror which correctly angled caught a surfeit
of light and threatened to blind the Republic—
our rotoscopic freedom at the foothills.