I was searching for proof—some evidence—
Well, I've come upon it.
A soul, a body, and a mind, certainly—
a memory—I've come upon it.
When he would sing with joy-filled eyes
but bloodthirsty, ravenous, craving fresh flesh—
a harpoon through my heart; strung to his back—
Why?—I've come upon it.
It is the mind that plays a shape-shifting game—
a persona of him created by me—
a fictitious embellishment of a false hope—
something more to cling to, is all.
A trick of the mind—a mirage—but proof
that my soul does not want, my skin does not want,
but my mind—its own entity—craves him, ideal.
Aha!—You see? I’ve come upon it.