To my Self

[Am I A Poet?]

Held in this prison cell
Existence,
We are blind;
We sit, alone, in an interrogation room,
Waiting for the interrogator to come,
Expecting Him to be watching from
Behind the one-way glass.

Its reflection, at first, shows
The room to be bigger than it really is.
A barrage of cross-examination
Renders this assumption an illusion.
Probably.

Faith, however, has presumed
Diplomatic immunity from this questioning.
Blind Faith that there is something
Behind this mirror, and somebody:
A benevolent Light beyond the glass
We try to see through, darkly.

All assumptions have imploded now.
He has won,
And lost:
That prosecutor, that interrogator,
Who was in my room all along.

My four cell walls
Are all made of this one-way glass,
Completed by a one-way glass floor
And a one-way glass ceiling too.

This jail has always been
A reflection of my Self,
And will always be.