Left at my doorstep— A Mirror, Wrapped in needless layers of cheap bubble wrap, Sans a sender’s name; smelt of burning embers
A script, indecipherable, carved onto its wooden frame(My maid said, “language of the poor, Sir”): It left permanent red marks on anyone who touched it, for the frame was Daubed in a wet Vermilion—never dried
I put it up in a corner “It’s strange,” they said, “negative; get rid of of it.” The reflected image was never a likeness Like a shatter-glass, it presented: A composite of me Many likenesses of a singularity The mirror—studied its object!
The reflections: Disconcerting, true depictions Peeled through all the bull shit Never a pleasant experience
One night, In the dark’s inky murk When the mirror had no Amo I buried it Good riddance!!!
