Lens

I see your still silhouette 

And deem it enough,

To judge, to analyse, to conclude

Whether your skin is soft or rough.

I see the way you move 

And think I ought to know,

From the swaying of the branches

Where the planter did sow.

I see the way you walk,

Hear the way you talk,

The words you let out,

Your nose scrunching, the quirk of your brow.

I think I know you well.

In fact, that's all I can tell.

The ridges of your body

The undulating lands

I've explored every crevice,

Every dune of sand.

At least that is what I think,

I think I know you to the brink,

Of your existence in a simple sense.

But is it with the indifference of simply pretence

That I see the iceberg through my simple lens?