Dear me,

You, with all your crevices and caves are still

the man in the glass, everyday he stares into

your eyes with expectation of you fulfilling

your starbound potential. Some Heaven sent your

Mother and your Father on a shaky ship across

a night sky into a nightland of white mares of which

they knew nothing with their toasted skin and pious eyes.

Their former Home was humid with the avarice of polieticians

who would rather be 5 minute kings of a torn and dusty land

than find peace with the enemies of their grandfathers.

So they ventured out into the wilderness of civilization and were

beckoned by a torch of a crowned woman, all so that one day you

could flourish in fertile earth. And thus when you emerged from Her

flesh you were the first of their selfless efforts so that one day when

they are your selfless efforts their last breaths shall be spent content.

So then, my oldest friend, why do you split yourself into two, warring

spirits who spit venomous love skimmed off the brim of marred self-images.

Honeyed words flow from your lips like a Hagar’s well but the folds

in your brain are adders hissing meanboy thoughts at lightspeed.

And you try to remedy through remedication but since when did

you ever find true solace from peering into foamy glass and prescribed

rattles for adults. A Gin wit from which whiskeyed words flow and words

paint a page. As you peer with a cottoned tongue and obsessed eyes of an artisan

perfecting his never immaculate craft, just as you see the man in the glass.

Contentment seems a forgone whim of a world in which your fantastical dreams

take shape in this tethered realm. Yet you expect it to collide with your cast

line in coincidence, when you turn a blind eye towards the power of your

wingspread will. That the chisel is handed to every man and woman from birth

and the marble measured in an allotment of years before them. Mother

says everyone’s Fate is written on their forehead but with it intertwined in

crosslinked probabilities is the erraticism of our intentions. And, while

you still taste the ambrosia of the Sun’s ascendance, feel every second of grained

sand as it leaks down through the infinite and minute gap of chance. Forget not

how Father was thrown in between the plasma of life and breathless, how Time

and the other great arbiters of our universe crucified him to strings and dangled

his body between worlds. Forget not how he returned to see his almost reflection

in a cruel blaze ignited by the inherent fickleness of our world. How the vessel

that he drove with comfort exploded minutes after he left, and died a skeleton

of a missed final destination. Remember the sweet scent of lifegas cannot be found

in the ground beneath, and remember who you are to them,  the first of the pride.