Reflection?
A young boy looks at himself and destructs.
His skin,
Was pulled taut over his bones.
His mind,
A sharp-cutting vessel skimming the waves
Of his demonic ruminating.
He stood there,
Boldly and angrily,
Before the judgmentally harsh, full-length mirror.
And he despised what glared back at him.
Heaving as a thundering steam engine,
As it barrels down a sparkling train track,
He shoved that brittle artifact, Grandma's beloved antique chair
Into the mirror, that testament,
To his inner self-loathing.
Suddenly,
The fragile, velvet-cloaked figure of the dark and pensive youth,
Shattered into a billion twinkling fragments,
While the mirror remained
Smugly intact.
Jane Wanklin
1997.