The Riddle of Metamorphosis

At first, I am strange

A form that resists your gaze,

A cipher stretched

Across angles and planes.

Some seek me in silvered truth,

Where curves confess themselves;

A mirror remembers a hand,

Clear as intention.

But that is only two answers of three.

Lower yourself.

Let your camera become a single, faithful eye.

Ignore the shine that claims authority.

Follow the thumb not as symbol,

But as alignment.

Stand where color abandons chaos,

Where fragments agree,

And noise learns to behave.

There, three seekers resolve from fracture

Winged, weightless,

Always in pursuit of what is real.

I am not revealed by looking harder,

Only by standing correctly.

What appears

When you align yourself?