Mirror-Washing
Trailing down the looking-glass in clear
rivers of tap water, I feel fear
begin in my own eyes, stung by sweat
like the rain outside and just as wet
as this pair before me, looking blurred.
In my chest, something else begins, stirred
into life by an image, fogged by my breath,
warmed by the fog, almost escaping the death
that is in its every movement.
Pictured by light, it is merely lent
the darkness of the wet sky outside.
Eyes remain open, they remain wide
as droplets descend on glass and soil
like a tribulation, trial or toil.
To be judged: how we see ourselves...
In the mirror: guitar, face, shelves...
We bring a piece-of-mirror to all
things we do: word in air, scribble-scrawl,
thought in head, waking the child in bed,
passing on by blood, washing it red.
So here am I, with this glass and cloth,
washing away pride, greed, wrath, sloth...
rubbing at every blur and stain,
cleaning my face, easing away pain
from self-evasion
and complication.
But seeing the sky outside so stained, I wonder and fear
that I must not wash this image all too clear.
________
It's ermmm...been a while, eh? It's not like I've not been writing, no, I've been writing loads. I remember when I used to post every poem I wrote as soon as I wrote it. Now, I don't really consider posting a poem when a dozen poems have already come after it. Also of concern is how little time I spend on a poem. Scares me to think that people spend months in fourteen lines. Lost kid that I am, I continue to flirt with rhymed poems. Which is why I need a favor.
I need to know if I've gotten over forced rhymes and all the accompanying problems. For reference there's this poem and another one (topic47635.html). I do miss the recklessness of the old rhymed poems sometimes.
Lastly, I will henceforth commence to barrage you with more poems regularly.
