This mirror sings a dirge,

in images of a face worn like incisions.
Clef notes composing visions of hopes demise.
A composition conducted by…
two eyes holding back falling skies.
I realize that hope is a hopeless enterprise.
no surprise.
I reflect on this reflection of a stranger in the mirrors eyes.
finding no connection,
I blink in rapid repetition,
a succession of me’s that used to be.
I am shaped by scars like memory’s
clung to pointlessly.
Holding on to a dream of
sleeping dreamlessly.
Seamlessly these faces blend forever.
A tapestry held together by never holding onto a thing worth remembering.
If this life’s worth living
then a noose is a promise ring.
The most beautiful sound is a song I heard a reaper sing,
it fell softly upon my consciousness like rain,
the whisper of a lover promising
the emptiness of loving again,
as if love were veritas.
What is truth?
Truth is pilot washing his hands.
like a shroud trapped image of,
a long dead man.
Provoking the dying to worship.
Vainly seeking healing of this life,
Surprised to find the only cure is in the mirror finish
reflection of a rapidly descending death scythe.
Still I find the mirror brings a smile,
a grin shaped middle finger to a world that
takes itself far to seriously.
I shake loose of this tendency to
take my life so personally.
Slowly spreading ear to ear like
a tooth filled slit throat,
a mask of a smile lacking the
capacity to emote.
The mirror brings a mockery of reality,
refracting nothingness back at me,

James Goodwin