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by Ed Shacklee

You’re blind to what the surface can’t conceal
because you never tried to look away.
The image is perfection, but unreal.
Too self-absorbed to think of what to say,
so much in love that you can only stare
at beauty staring from its stagnant pond,
you heard the others leave but didn’t care
if they pursued a quest that went beyond

the journey you complete by staying here,
as rooted as the flower of your name.
Your mazed reflection muddies what is clear —
a self that loves its shell enough to frame
its questions with this answer sees that Truth
has bloomed in the eternity of youth.

Ed Shacklee is a public defender who represents young people in the District of Columbia.

See links to all sonnets by this author

Pat Jones
Published 23 August 2011