Lightning Tatters, Mirrors Shatter

 It’s comical the slowness with which a face changes.

I caught glimpse of myself a couple months ago.  

Pale, brooding, spiraling—  

I spent more time in the sun than was optimal.  


It’s comical, those subtle changes.  

A lifetime ago, the mirror would smile—  

warm, happy, the feeling  

reverberating from glass to lips.  


It’s comical,  

this mirror holds all,  

this mirror holds nothing.  


I strike me, the mirror.  

It’s comical how it sees—  

now more complete.  


Cracks crinkle,

cracks crinkle into different cracks.  


The opulent hue of bliss  

that lights a smile—  

the deep cold tremor  

that lurks below a long look.  


The rich vein of love ran dry,  

idles in still eyes.  


My face, at once a still meadow,  

weathers the emotive seasons.  

Ebb and flow  

leave their mark—  

and off they go.  

A new neutral is left.  


Summer's sweet sun

tantalizes seeds of dormant dreams  

to unfold.  

Smile widens,  

laughter leaves crow’s feet.  


Summer’s sharp storms

brandish, beat, reshape  

the dreams I keep.  


Lightning carves new seams,

splitting silver glass—  

upheaving old illusions.  

Thunder rattles my bones,  

shaking my feet,  

a primal fervor inciting.  


For dreams too soon washed away.  

For scars and scrapes that smooth.  

For reflections that once deceived,  

now fractured into truth.  


And still,  

I wayward search  

for my honest face.  

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