He stared at himself.
At his reflection in his thumbnail.
Illuminated by the thoughts of the now,
Supporting weight,
Lights of a cell phone button panel,
The darlings of the that,
The occasional thought of her.
He thought that it felt kind of surreal,
To see himself,
In himself.
What he dreamed he might always know.

Earlier still, he felt the royal breeze of the wind
Humming through his pine tree kingdom
And observed a higher power
From his park bench throne.
He made serfs of the domesticated peasant-animals
And spoke fluently their colloquial language;
The same language that taught
Him how to form his own doctrines of pine and wilt and youth.
He was the prince of wilted flowers and honest hopes.

And I see now what was so glorious of the wilted
Past-future, the occasional constant,
The foreshadowing of her voice in the royal, humming, breeze.

He stared at himself,
At his reflection in he wind,
Illuminated by the empty
Park bench throne next to him,
Thoughts of an honest hope,
A wink and a smile from the wind in the trees.