Not seen

I remember thinking that being invisible was the coolest thing to be and that there was nothing more enjoyable.

If I wanted to, I could creep up on my sisters and frighten them.
I wouldn't need to wear a stitch of clothing to run around the park all day.

I had access to my pals' innermost thoughts and plans.
I would be privy to the whispers that couples exchanged while strolling hand in hand.

I had the ability to capture wild birds, rabbits, and steal bees' honey.
I often wished I could become invisible.

As a man, I was aware of, or I believed I was aware of, the maxim that we should believe only in what we can see and, to a greater extent, what we can touch.

And only the wind, on her orphic journey, as she sweeps across the seas, is aware of the closely-guarded secret of invisibility.

Now I sit here all day on this bench without getting a single look.
My movements are sluggish, and the wonderful dance of life is about to come to an end.

I speak with a hideous face that no one can see, and no one hears what I say.
It appears that my boyhood yearning for invisibility has come true.

Point of view, I suppose, is dependent upon our current position, and even the things we are quite certain of can change in an instant.

And those things we occasionally yearn for might come true at a later period, like the gift of invisibility I receiv
ed in my latter years.