Though you fashion yourself assembled,
the you you seek stands incomplete.
Each moment ushers in iteration,
and the you you seek must retreat.

If you gaze at your self reflected,
you may think all a static affair.
This vision is but an illusion;
unto mirrors never you stare.

None know all you can be,
and you never meet yourself.
The strange becomes familiar
when your mask never meets the shelf.

You weave yarn with ease
as you move from room to room.
Strings are wont to tangle;
through you they loom.

Always you are manifest;
confluence is where you hide.
An inexpressible culmination,
beyond this you you reside.