Old age doesn’t turn a new body into an elder.
Only when you write on mirrors do you learn
your skin aint rough yet.
You made of glass and bone and I can see through tints.
Your flesh is baby soft,
and your mind lacks a room of study,
so when you are gifted new books,
you don’t know where to put them,
you don’t know how to read them,
you burn them.
Your mirror is still glass,
the aluminum silvering is still in a stone,
and the pen is somehow in my hand.
Have you ever had the experience of attempting to have a mature conversation with someone who surprisingly hasn’t found that maturity yet; They lack the ability to see themselves so they project and it ends up being your unwilling responsibility to metaphorically hold up the mirror?