Step Through the Glass
Shallow pane of glassy pain….
Today I slipped past it and I saw someone
Narrated in the varnished mirror.
And I narrowed my eyes in confusion, because that’s not who I am.
How can a stoic reflection tell a tale?
I am the oil puddle in the parking lot, swirling in angst,
Trying, striving to conjure a rainbow out of blackness, and when I fail at last,
The sun trumpets through the clouds and blasts his beams into every part of me.
And his smiling condescension colors my soul.
I don’t see that story in the mirror’s flimsy depths.
But the rights are sold- it shows me what it fancies.
And I am left with the duty to step past deception.
Because the idea just tags along
That if I’m not who I see…
Neither are you.