I confused my own reflection with that of another man’s.
He was taller than me.
His hair, full, like a youth’s,
Yet salted from the days of his age.
He wore glasses and looked the part of a scholar.
His ****** hair hid what appeared to be
A lively face, but with this in mind,
He was tired, panting for air.
We both walked the same pace,
Toward a dark and reflective glass.
I was him for a brief moment.
And what about him?
Did he confuse my own for his?
Did he know me?
For, in that moment when I turned from the glass, our eyes met.
He had a square eye that matched mine.
I felt his burden, and his weighted years,
And there in the dark glass, I knew a man,
My breath was not my own.
My beat was not my own.
Once we passed each other,
I gave a quick turn,
And saw him looking deeply into that dark glass —
Reflecting
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
One hand is cold.
One hand is warm.
Then one eye is closed,
And one eye is opened.
The tongue flicks out syllables
When the mouth rounds the words.
All the while, the nostrils take in air,
and the ears are picky listeners.
If it's not one thing,
it's another.
So, we are divided in two,
always conflicting --
grey area.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC