[Written on 28/7/2015]
Before the mirror, a figure stands,
still as anything as a pondering arises, veiled like a bride in an illusion of subtlety,
its gown appended with strings upon which new riddles cling,
their weights growing like a spell gone utterly wrong.
Utterly, utterly wrong.
[and in an effort of appeasement, you tell yourself.
this sorry excuse of an existence simply cannot be—]
The sheen is no match for a gaze,
sculpted with the minuscule workings of a divine craft,
gilded with a care that has long vanished,
from what he can hope to fathom with the unruly knots that clutter his mind,
knots drenched in whimsical splashes of chaos;
this recklessly crude contact one of a tragic finality, for it is after these collateral collisions—
—that the chaos becomes. It becomes.
Supplanting the hollows once reserved for hope’s offspring.
And this, of course, is—
[who he is,
not that damned impostor—]
He wonders if glass is capable of hurting,
of airing cracked, strangled pleas of ‘stop, please, stop—‘
should a crack just — so very unfortunately — explode across its crystalline shell.
And perhaps more, he tests the notion with a spark of boldness as he lunges—
—and the cracks spread their reign, the triumph of their conquest marked
with a spider-like insignia, jagged shards budging from the loosening of levelness,
from the overthrowing of a uniformity that has mocked him for far too long—
[and he smiles,
in spite of those jarring crimson stains,
and the translucent shreds that peel stingingly in place of skin—
Victory swells in the hollows where chaos dwells,
now accustomed to the permanence his warped spaces have so generously endowed them.
And it is only in these hollows,
that his satisfaction blossoms free, spurred on by the kingly facades of pride and—
[and he smiles,
because there are no tears now, and the gospel truth is that he sheds none,
and now this scheming, vile, mirror
is finally laid to rest.]
And that is what you get.
A snarl as crimson pools, rapid as it drips.
That is what you get.