42 feet underground

(20 minute poetry)

Plucked from obscurity
from behind bolted doors
where no one could see
me.

And now I’m out there
breathing out fame
breathing in fresh air.

Looking in the glass
at
me,
do I pass
inspection?

My reflection’s the same
so I breathe out more fame
breathing in more fresh air
my reflection’s still there,
unchanged.

Not a hair out of place
nor
a hair on my clean
shaven face
not déjà vu,
I ask,
Who
are you?

A resurrection?
reflection
a correction?
the accepted convention
is a reply.

Plucked from obscurity
and even I
do not answer me.

Nothing changes
except for the
time.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.