An exercise in poetry

Breathless: the search left him. He refused to believe that his inquisition was he. He ran, shuffling between copies, looking each image in the eye, trying to find out where he lay. Each image, in its turn, looked him in the eye, trying to pierce his heart, stabbing his character, only to see if it was real or not. Or was it or was it not. Mirrors create more mirrors, only to lead us astray. Us? Oh no, don’t you dare judge me, you fucking image of mine! I am, and you are not. What is it? Who spoke? Was it an echo? You bloody playing games with me? One of us has a voice, now that it has come to it, and that one is the real one. Oh no, tell me I’m insane, tell me it’s the voices in my head, tell me it’s not you speaking, tell me that I am the one who is real. Not you, not you, not anyone of you.
Look up! haha, there we are, the real one owns. Or does he? I see a mirror above me! I see fingers being pointed at me from above. Are only the mirrors real? What is real? Are we just living vicariously in a hyperreality? Fuck. It can be true!
What is true?


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