So what’s amiss when alcoves steal your place?
While cheekbones draw still figures in the dark,
What is that burning if it is not your face?
And who’s that shouting if it is not your heart?
Absently gazing far across the maze
Perhaps you dozed then trickled back inside,
A tattered fool too eager to amaze…
Morose yet fledged but weary to reside,
Within…your sanity benights the univited
It’s not becoming now to quiver in its sight,
Who would’ve thought you’d never be delighted
However silent, the mirrors were alight.
Seen how the chaos echoes from a past
Sun-bled over the cracks upon your wall,
Time is a leg and you’re the broken cast
And now the world’s not leaping anymore.
So drag your rags down on the hall of shame
And purge the shelf to scrape the lining clean,
Take to the cripple – he’s got a better claim
He’ll lead you back to where the beggars preen.
Yet borrowed truths still lie without remorse
And tragedy is scarce among the white,
Don’t worry now, for sanity is worse!
And it’s a shame to cuddle in its blight.
Which one are you?
There’s no respite – your marble hands are fading
From always scraping down against my door
And all this time – incapable of trading,
A shriveled heart has crucified the poor.
Yet mirrors beg or steal, mostly the black and bleak
By shards or by a smile, worn as a charming gun,
For yesterdays of ember embroidered on a cheek
Make for a perfect rescue when all their light is gone.
Because the statues feed on splinters of the shelf
While walking down the sidewalk of their youth,
All disarrayed and tarnished, stumbling on their feet
Clumsily going through with this absurd pursuit.
But in the end the thief is never whole
Nor is the beggar presentable to meet,
Albeit poor, I’d take a trader’s bowl
Than fool around and feed upon deceit.
Embrace the shadow of a brimming shelf tight
Then staple the bruises to the lining inside,
Seeking not of the end, this merely the bight
And reckon thyself as thy heart starts to chide.
All the pleas of a hero who despises its praise
Flaying slices of truth from the brow of one’s mind,
Yielding not as most do to a sorrowful gaze
When the trenches are gone and the battle is blind.
Should you trust all their mirrors with the promise of sun?
When their inward reflections dig a bottomless pit?
Shun away all these ghosts and forgive what was done
Burn the rags of your youth since they no longer fit.
Don’t presume you are safe from the horrors of men
Clad in thin golden clothes lacking lining within,
They’ll be stripping your shelf and then building your pen…
They’ll provide you with truths and absolve you of sin.
No tortuous dream is cruel without a reason
Its sacred screams yet muffled by the mute,
Birth echoes lost inside the slate sky prison
Revealing lies, embroidered in your suit.
Just stay awake and fumble through the clay
Of knitted days, aghast at what they sell,
A rusted shelf’s all that you have to pay
To be admitted to their private hell.
And then your shadow withers in the dust
Of concrete temples brooding over rain,
Two times whitewashed from riddles of the past
To cleanse the shelf and redeem all the shame.
An ailing sun resigned behind a cloud
Its squeamish wails crimsoned naked trees,
As sighs of loss were unwinding your shroud
Old stitches broke and brought you to your knees.
Your echo faltered, confusing the deceased
While ghosts still bickered over your memory,
The tainted shelf no longer held a priest…
And marble hands got wrapped in emery.
Now sorrow drifts upon the winds of fate
Through hollow churches serving a fallen god,
This litany has died outside its gate
And your belief has come to be a fraud.
So cold and damp within that room of stone…
Where monsters weep again over their human traits
Piercing your skin and flesh, residing in the bone,
Behind dark rings of truth where no respite awaits.
Hello there sleepless monster! you whisper at an end
And then old, skin-tight wishes bristle beneath its skin,
It whimpers, backing off, licking its scars to mend
For all those shrieking thoughts combine into a din.
And so the hollow mirrors seek shelter from the shades
Sniffing to smell the fear and recognize its brine,
But hunger now prevails while human side persuades
Leaving you there to ask: Is this life really mine?
For these contorted senses seared reason to the core
As mirrors brimmed with wishes compelled to carry on,
A wretched sort of monster who fought the human war
Chained by the craving mirrors, adorned only to shun
Every existing kindness for it’s your new disease
Crippling dented shelves with chisels of the tongue,
Stories the monster fears and that the cripple feels
As curses of the past from which this present sprung.