We carry
 in our inner world
 icons of various sizes
 and states,
 of the outer.

 Some,
 larger than life,
 mask the originals,
 on the inner theater stage,
 grabbing our total attention.

 Some are miniatures,
 wrought with a fine brush,
 and classified away,
 to be worshipped at times
 of nostalgic remembrance.

 Some are fearful spectres,
 hid in the deepest cellars,
 under double lock and key.

 Mostly though,
 a level of representation,
 sheaths direct contact,
 making us spectators
 in the grand play of life.

 Except when
 we tear down
 the curtains
 searching epiphany,
 in raw and direct
 confrontation.