Mirror’s Bane
There’s
a man in a room
Whitewashed,
water painted.
A
foolish, stupid man
all
alone in his room.
Full of
hate for what he sired
ashamed
of his desires
but
what he hates most of all
is his
wardrobe with the mirror;
the
skeletons he hid
among
his dirty clothes;
his
taste for denim and black;
the
glass he never cleans
from
all the times he spat
on the
image that he sees.
he
walks to face the mirror
though
he knows what will be there
In it
the image stands
Cluttered
with smudges and smears
The
image gags and cries
In
self-pity for what it has become
And
that stupid foolish man
Spits
once more upon the ground
He grasps the frame tightly.
Curses,
screams, hisses and spits,
“I hate
you!” to his reflection;
Mourns
a skeleton of his selection.
The
mirror cracks from stress of scorn
And
bleeds from its deep fissures
The
image screams in agony
And
explodes into a thousand mirrors.
Each shard
of jagged shame
Echoes
what he said,
I hate
you! I hate you! I hate you!”
As he tears himself to
shreds.
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