Notes to Self. 2009-2015

[Brownlie]

Ok, Here we go.

I am the sum of many parts, some circumstance and fate. -- I like the first part (before the comma) better.
I know myself or think I do, but through a compound  eye I see -- Why not, "I see through a compound Eye."
the circling dance of others who divide their lives by love or hate;
espousing this, negating that, assured by their life policy.

To those who see in monochrome I am a man of grey; -- Either a comma after monochrome or, what may be better, put "I am a man of grey" before "To those who see in monochrome."
but slit me with a keen-honed word, or puncture me with poisoned pen, -- Poisoned pen seems a little awkward, but it does seem to convey part of the stately pomp of iambics (not calling the poem pompous because I don't think it is).
and all the well-red blood will pour, from all who had a part to play -- I'm assuming well-red is a pun of sorts.
in casting me to be just one among a million, million men. -- why not "a million other," or a billion or something.

Surprises now are less and less, fresh thoughts a memory. -- How could a memory be fresh thoughts?
So dance for me a different waltz, and swirl me off to somewhere rare.
Spin while you can in certainty that this is how your world will be.
Take me along but bind my eyes, abandon me when we get there.

No, I am old and you are young…you follow on my trail.
Look down, though, when the scent goes cold and only stones in faded view
will guide you by that final sense; touch each before you grow too frail
then sit and call out names you knew, they will be calling you.
 
If love and hate should follow you, your journey will not end.
You’ll walk alone— a  penalty— for wearing truth’s concealing mask,
instead of being someone else; a lie in love, a pretend friend.
Late daylight dawns, where is the way? But it’s too late to ask.  
 
Though I am lost I will not ask where is this place…where am I now?
I flew with trade winds, words were gold, and all desired my contraband;
but current wins against the  breeze. Once no one steers, the pointing prow    
on awkward tide turns out to sea, then grateful founds on foreign land.

Tectak
From “A Diary” 2009-2015

Well, it seems quite mellifluous in certain places. I made some comments, and I suppose you could explain the poem if you see fit.

Thanks for posting.