On Meaning Well, and Never Intending To Be So Selfish

I see
a dim reflection in the mirror,
a maybe sometimes of who I want to be.
I see
an almost outline of a shadow on the wall
of someone nealy tall enough to stand up for
something worth standing up for.
I see me,
and I'm a short reality, a dew that's
drying to a vapor in the time it takes for
you to read these words.
I am both the product and the tool;
I am not a woman but a fool
if I keep staring at the nothing
that I am to conjure beauty,
drawing dreams in the sand.
Instead I'm leaving footprints so those
close enough to follow, can,
and all the rest will wash away
(it all is going to anyway).


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