Defeat

Four years, or are they five,
or even some more? My own
mirror of time, they make 

Gummed and then red-backed
with the dried crimson bleed of
two ears and the disquiet 

Of all the words they never hear.
There are so many riddles
I see in my face. Gathering,

The crow's feet around my eyes
seem to ask -- does loneliness age?
And how can I be both,

That silent, stolen, upraised glance
into changeless skies of lies,
(when no one's watching,)

That ritual cursing of an empty grimace;
the bird-like gaze, from up above
in my bumbling defeats,

Seeing grace?