The Watchful Self

Arrowhead sipping the colour from my eyes.
He she may not recognise me in my disguise
as a river, with my knees bent into a rush
and my arms dispersed to hide in the gush.
I'm nowhere to be found, having never been lost,
having not been taken apart and further tossed
into the oceans of other minds. Where I belong,
I drink from the wavelengths of a conscious song.
What I would call a hush, a murmur, I hear,
and see without vessels that worlds can tear
into estuaries. Listening, I am blind and deaf,
but a fingerprint on the window to the self.
I stream through, as he she wanders about
through the mistakes of believing in doubt.