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Why am I the mirror of your heart,
Reflecting without depth your deepest pain, Revisiting your hell again, again, As though you were a well-wrought work of art? Why do I vicariously take part In suffering you barely can sustain, Witnessing your agony in vain, Tracing chaos too profound to chart? Each night obsessively I come to you, Eager to devour your bitter fruit, Uneasy through the doldrums of my day. Watching is, alas, what I can do, As though my gaze were contribution mute, Sharing your ordeal in some small way.
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