In this age of optics I’m a misfit.
Why aren’t we accepted as living doodles
of ipseity, our simon-pure selves?
The looking glass strains me but some
are mauled by mirrors within. Peccavi
is positive, it suggests sacerdotal purity.
I gapeseed at a passel of possibilities.
In this collation each is an emperor
of his universe.
Constriction by a pendulum squiring you
from playground of plenty to pangram
of pain is a self-induced stricture.