Of the Self

Human Frailty:

found perfectly in the confines of a mirror.

The deep, solemn eyes of a Grandmother,

her aging lines spread out like butterfly wings. . .

The sunken sockets of a teenage boy,

bloodshot veins carrying drunken thoughts to a headache. . .

The hollowed impressions of a curious child,

wild in their maturing endeavor to understand. . .

The face of a man who hates,

the face of a man who has poured, to the last drop,

every ounce

of his being,

   to love too much;

The face of a man found

The face of a man lost,

wanting to be found,

unaware of his own thoughts;

The face of a woman scarred, smiling

The face of a woman soon to be, melancholy. . .

it withers like the drying spring in fall,

  is reborn again like the fallen spring sun,

 it lies back like summer swing-sets

     and shivers in the frigid snow banks of winter. . .

the skin, a sudden jolt of reality,

much rougher than its glassy counterpart;

   the throat holds a throbbing heart

and a petrified torso stands more captivating

    than the last pages of "The History of the World"

it is the inconsistencies of a would-be perfect world,

an ellipsis to something