I have thought of my many nights lost
Amidst cat naps I took in a noontime
Under a broken dream-state of being.
My life goes on being examined briefly
Like old philosopher blinded by words
Seeing from holes where were his eyes
His stone eyes to that he had not lived
A seer of all that he would have been
But never was, a possibility of being.
Mine are eyes that are not yet pearls
Unlived from fiction , others’ dreams.
They are holes that were dry puddles
In stone bodies we have always lived,
And a sun has worn out with shadows.