Looking Glass

What is this thing I’m looking through?
A will to mean? A point of view?

A tremored pond? A shifty stead?
A way to turn things in my head?

The weather here, once was clear.
‘Haps it’s not as they appear.

Seems its cloudy, blocked and skewed.
What am I supposed to do?

Does it not matter how I see?
The images that flow through me?

Does it not matter where I stand?
My perspective’s in remand.

How I’m yearning for the true.
Hiding deep inside of you.

The fog, as I look at thee.
It arises from in me.

Veracity, before my eyes.
Yet it passes me right by.

I’ve been fed with tales and coo.
It’s flavoring my point of view.

A taste that’s there but isn’t mine.
Perhaps an other did define.

And set the tone, and played the song.
And possibly, why I was wrong.

A cleansing of this glass is due.
For the sake of seeing truth.

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