Skeleton In The Mirror

A skeleton man stands before a mirror,

Tall, hunched, dry and empty,

Looking at what he thinks he sees,

A reflection, fleeting, a resemblance,

Something disturbed in the thread, beautifully,

Touched without feeling it shudders,

An echo of a self, a living death, grasping,

Frail, leaving no impression on others,

Through the cracks in the glass, a crooked grin,

Casting an ironic sliver of regret, neglect tasted,

A white shadow that cannot relate, bent,

On a spectrum tipped badly, sometimes lived, ill-fated,

A learned pose that bares the bony shoulders,

A pageant intrigue, morbid at best,

The slim vanity lost in the design of the set,

A tragedy, a bravely dressed mess,

Reality, as it is, for it is, thus,

Bones, hard, white and unpolished,

What they don’t see, it sees, less,

Blindly and yet naively astonished…

 

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