The Meaning of My Face

My face is blotted,
As if the ink of insufficient works
Had stained even my skin,
Leaving an indellible trace, or as if
I suffer my trangressions
By means of exterior, visible signs,
A language that speaks the moment
It is not, the vision and the feeling that I feel
And I decide — and yet am still
Decided by, since speaking I use words
And yet, again, conceived or redeceived
(yes, recidived) into these words
— and as a word — I speak.