Poetry 312

A mirror is said to reflect, yet as I observe its gleam I understand ‘knowing in part’. I do not see anything familiar; whether dressed and drawn or bare and true, it is no reflection.

For each wisp and whimsy has left me.  Each follicle a traitor, deserting to escape death.  The haunting of every traitor.

My hand runs over the smooth surface.  Waiting. Watching. Like the eyes of an angler watching the sea.  Searching for some detectable change.

This uncovering does not manifest a true reflection. I am who I am.  Below the surface, my mind continues on its travels and my heart remembers how to yearn.

Yet the waters reveal no ripple.  The traitors were blown away leaving a smooth surface, for all to see.



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