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 other faces, and their “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 having long endured their inevitable plight of the cold mirror’s still, shattering view and disappearing eyes of all but a few who see us yet faintly in the light that remains