Distorted Mirror

I see my own dirty face,

Hanging on the wall,

It looks so very out of place;

Good humours even pall.

These disgusting figures;

My eyes see truth that hides,

Pretending by time’s rigours,

In fact, mirrors the inside.

There, a heart lacks colour,

Lacks grace, won’t be defined;

This slob is cast down by its mother,

Feel the perplexity of its mind.

See discolouration, a true sign

That sin is lurking near

Burning in that heart of mine,

Leaving others alone in fear.

‘Imperfections’ society calls them,

But I see something more;

Make-up changes nought but flesh,

No beauty with clothes on the floor.

There is my own pathetic face,

Leering from the glass,

I will not be moved from my place;

Will anyone take me at last?

The End

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