The foggy mirror
Displaces your image
Back to you
Distorted and the right on the left
Left on the right

You rub your hand against the glass
Use the sleeve of your shirt to pierce the fog
Though it does not disappear

It’s permanently there, you decide
Along with the black mold that lingers at the corners
And at the sides

You look further into it
Just a piece of reflecting glass
Or that’s what it seems to be

You look directly into the middle
Not at your eyes but at the material of the glass
There is a small speck with no fog.

You start again to run you sleeve across
But starting at the speck,
The fog slowly circulates around the mirror
Like it is holding a pool of fog

You push the fog so it overlaps
And the edges are a deeper gray
A clear spot emerges in the center

You put your finger right in the middle of the spot
It’s not painful
But it’s not comfortable
There is pressure on your finger

A vibrating sensation
An other worldly pull
You are completely mystified
By the images that swirl through the fog

Though not of another world,
They are of yours,
They are what you may be able to hold in your hands one day
The others what happens with nothing in your hands.