poem about a mirror

poem about a mirror

By Parker S. Taylor

I don’t have a mirror. No,

it could never show me.

He who lives inside of me—

no reflection could he be!

Me, who wanders out at late,

stares at stars and street lights;

gasps and gazes at the lights,

dazzled by the chill nights,

twirls in lights and darks, those nights,

chained to street lamps by the sights.

Me, with wings of sandpaper;

sky-bound, he who flies, soars—

shrieking, shrilly, as he soars—

he whose strife he out-roars,

crimson thoughts trapped in his roars.

To his life he takes oars:

paddling, washing it with oars’

strokes away. It all outpours.

Me, the one with lips of bone

speaking solely old songs;

preaching poems, heartful songs,

melding into those gongs—

soothing, reassuring gongs—

that for which my peace longs,

where serenity belongs.

Yet, the placid voice wrongs

all his feelings, ancient wrongs:

endless discontentment’s throngs.

Me, the final one, too far,

much too far that I’d see;

and for him, who couldn’t see,

breaking my entreaty,

there lies our disparity:

dressing fancifully,

living lightly, blissfully:

loved and loving, so free,

opened up and let be free!

What, then, separates me

from that awesome other “Me”?

Just that he is called a “she.”