Reflection
The mirror is the mask
- as is the lens -.
In an instant
I am hidden
behind some face
that couldn't possibly be the sum of
my loves and pains,
my inner, roadless, borderless landscape,
my, in fact, genetic attendance
to beauty. Always.
It is a face
twenty years into
hammering it out alone.
It is ugly, puffed, pinched, - a bit pissed.
And behind the eyes -
even the sad yearning from abadonment has gone stale.
In somehow the same life in which I loved you,
I have become pure stranger to my self.
So says the mirror
which calls me
the disguise.
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