Poem 5

My mirror hates me.

It holds a thousand little shadows and black

holes and windows which gape, open wide

for all too see.

I am easy to read, but hard to write.

The tussle of the rippling skin writhing with life

Placed so delicately upon my sineous soul,

A sheet of dried leaf to seperate the inside from

the out.

The little spots of green are tossed

in a storm of time until the autumn takes them,

And removes the ripeness of the senses.

Yellow specks freckle my eyes and coincide

with stars, which reflect back to


The mirror laughs, but I do not.

The End

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