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The first chapter of conceptual E.P., 'Sonnets of Solipsism' in which we meet a man who seems scared of his reflection...
I once knew a man who was scared of his reflection,
Scared to reflect on his past fear of rejection.
He'd go to art galleries and all he'd see is mirrors,
Loose form shapes and sounds moving nearer.
To him newspapers were blank verse poetry,
He'd go to the corner shop, but not the one locally.
When asked why he wears a mask, "So no one knows me",
He replied every time, not a fan of working socially.
Mostly it seems he's a reasonable character,
Who are we to judge or play the part of a narrator?
No one can see through his glass; we still look.
He's boarded his window up with philosophy books.
Dissected his favourite pages,
And tape them onto the panes so his eyes can't escape them.
Sometimes at night he dreams of blank spaces,
The night sky might try to take him places.
He sees in his sleep in the solar system,
In his head it relays as rooms slowly drifting.
I could risk optimism and say he's not insane,
If he didn't potray such a vision of shame.
I see him around on a daily basis,
There may be a snapshot of fate in his faces.
Tainting the stasis, maintaining, erasing,
Only to stop him from facing the case.
One of a kind in an unkind world,
As I knocked on his door and the story unfurled.
I met with him once, out of town, we drank coffee.
We made brief eye contact.
"Get off me!" he snarled,
Rasping under his breath.
We drank four more cups in silence and eventually left.
Before he went he mentioned his death,
But when I speak I manifest as events in his head.
I told him it's best if he just went home to bed,
He said his body is in prison for Identity Theft.