If that thing for which you truly grieve
is the loss of your very own vanity,
through the looking glass to your sweet, subtle age,
upon your imminent and most definite death,
then you, yourself, may have yet to love, and lose,
in the worst kind of way;
And you, begrudged, are every Pessimist,
and you, yourself, are every Narcissist,
and you, your very own kind,
are every Human, that
ever was, or has
yet to be.
So, while perched at your vanity dresser,
or displayed in the eye of the beholder,
or writing your soul for none or some—
just trust that the beauty is deep and is flowing,
and that you are infinitely synced and well-knowing,
that you’re still on the edge and haven’t, yet, wet your feet.
Hush and just listen to the whistling wind.
Move quick in mud and don’t cake on the muck;
awake and aware, don’t be wary or weary,
just beware of the Guise that will hide the Vainglory.
Wade swamps, get dirty, and make up your story—
and always move fast through the vast, stagnant truth.
Author: Rochelle Loren Hingley
Volunteer Editor: Kim Haas / Editor: Travis May
Photo: Christie Nielson via Flickr