and he wonders why things never change
he sometimes reflects on mirrored effects
of petty things, and pretty things.
of things he hopes and things he dreams
and a kiss or a tear in the moment
that is his, yet isn’t, silly creature of vanity --
all beauty is in the heart of the words he inspires.
in himself, pen to paper, and to think
that he should see worlds through a mirror
yet nothing in himself, or the reflection
that is his own.
19 years and he doesn’t know his own name.
doesn't understand that his voice,
and his words, are harsh and raspy and cold
like the penetrating sound of a song without meaning;
and what meaning is there for him
but what he makes for himself, and he knows
yet he can’t seem to let the melody go
or remember who he is. he can’t remember
the sound of remorse, the sound of forgiveness,
the sound of his own heartbeat.
forgive me. love me.
and to love is what the world hopes for him
but what he can’t hope for within himself
21 and he’s like a broken clock, ticking away
though not moving forward
and he wonders why things never change for him
anchored feet, clipped wings, and a breeze strong enough
to feel but not to know the moment of flight
though he knows falling. he can't forget falling.
he’s a mirrored image of himself, and he doesn't
see a thing.
mirror, mirror on the wall
who is the fairest of them all?
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