Seeking my younger self in the depths of the mirror that sparkles.
The mirror of sparkles,
which dwells in the river of moments once spent.
Spent as bullets.
Once fired from a living gun.
The living gun, as the are bullets wasted.
Now, in  virtual silence, ones self is found in a poetry book.
One, I writ.
I write for relief.
For  the exorcism of demons.
Repentant pleasure.
Penance at the end of a pen.
My medication.
My religion.
My love.
(C) Livvi