Class 1A - Poetic Licence (Un-restricted)

He sees himself as nothing else,

He sees himself deflecting.

He knows himself, there’s something else

And still he’s not reflecting.

He tries to blame his thoughts of shame,

On things that he can see.

He’s taking score of every flaw,

Of his analogy.

An alliteration

Of his categoric scopic?

Personification

Of his metaphoric logic?

He searches at his own pace,

Placing to its place

Then thinking how he could replace

The things he has misplaced

(by other hims)

The forgotten things, the just in case.

So careful not to lose his face.

Despite the glaring honesty

He forfeits poetic license

For what?

He asks me when it does not matter,

(Re-ignition of the mindless chatter)

For a moment...

A barked command to play his hand

And violence takes its silence

Don’t fold

As the air grows cold

The noises of the old and told

He remoulds a mouldy, moulded mould

And beholds a hand of scolding gold.

All can see his house is full

Of lighted royalty.

He’s swimming in the Hard to Sea

Of Knowing;

He can be...