UNTITLED POEM: The Werewolf, No. 2

his face is a composite mask:
everyone that I have ever known
each eye paints him a thousand colors
an unfamiliar, unforgetting clarity is
a perspective
limited in scope but not in range
an emptiness of soul;
an emptiness of limb;
nothing can yet quite compare to the emptiness of him
this transposed dimension brings to mind
the emptiness of nothing
and the nothingness of all.

~*~

Lark, I'm glad. I'd be more than willing to discuss things. I'll try to send you an e-mail tomorrow at work, but feel free to shoot me an e-mail or a telephone call sometime. euthydemos, yes, I am going to use the word 'mimetic' in everything now.