I introduce another meta-poem,
That turns reflective on the very act,
That seems to ever ponder why they come,
Come down to greet me in my mind again,
Come down and sit a ductile metal cold,
And that I steer to something captivating,
But never draw out far to scorn its roots,
I find that as I watch a poem it,
Unfolds to something given and received.

Light pings and flickers off the obscured glass,
As the flowing pattern wobbles across its surface,
Dancing around the reflection,
Telling myths about the reality behind.

It sits peacefully,
Hemmed in between the walls,
Gazing into the dark sky,
Peeking at the warm floor beside.

The light continues to glimmer and bounce off the warping pane.