The Scarf of a Thousand Heads

To wear it one place; on my breath, my eyes, my smile,
Rather than my head.
If it were long enough to tread,
I would pull myself across every mile.

And all its colors mean it more to me;
mean it right to my very head.
But those colors bake in the heated dread
of the eyes of assumed civility.

How could they justly see?
Mustn't it be a pain...
To watch me emerge from this stain
As pure as they should be.

But don't think me a fool.
I, as we, know we're seen,
Beneath a well-guarded screen;
Pity in its perfectly depthless pool.

Listen to me; surround my cave,
Gather the words I seem to spill,
For I possess the worldly thrill
Of life and love you cannot save.

And yet more, this chastely silk
That snakes itself beyond my brow,
That pulls my wrinkled head around
And brings the Earth beneath its hilt,
Is only one part, one mile,
One eon of a thousand centuries
Of a life that pulls you gently,
Lifting the face of a thousand eyes.