when the shining glass looks back at us
like a stalled rerun of our personal opera of soap
and the technicolor turns to charcoal gray
we know we are coming to the end of our day

and we look to smaller spaces,
those “windows to the soul”,
for a reflection of who we are,
or were
they cast an obligatory glance
or do an avoidance dance
when we give an imploring stare
to see if they know, we are still there

each day fewer shine bright or glitter with glee
and we wonder what happened to me
the me they saw and sought after
in the colored world of before

others disappear into their own dark night
long having endured the inevitable plight
of the cold mirror’s still, shattering view
and disappearing eyes of all but a few
who see us faintly
in the light that remains