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Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt

Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.

From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive.  But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.

His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.

Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words,  confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.

                                                
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Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

A monk sips morning tea,
it's quiet,
    the chrysanthemum's flowering.

Wind,the agent of change,
         you at first was far off and distant,
                    A constant drone of bees, not much!
                       they paid no heed to those rumblings,
                  Your power was counted
                      insignificant,they kept the curtain drawn,
Down, intact, trying to
             keep you out of the house of darkness.they kept.
                    But the suppressed put
                     their ears close to the ground, listened,
Aware of your intent, they
        patiently waited, watching your unhurried advance.

Giving  talkative leaves ample chance
        to speak their heart, first, tickling trees, caressing clouds,
You changed the speed,
          rustling sound soon became persistent.
                 Shouting slogans, hand raised,
                    all the plants and trees expressed their anguish,
Insisted, a change, justice for mother nature,
           stoppage of torture of , animals, birds and bees.

Wind, you act as an unswerving  friend,
                creating awareness , is  your intent.
  and fight the rot , naked profit motive, relentlessly,
                 by now every one knows the injustice,
festering fiercely  in the core.
                               You drive the clouds and spin them about,
                                        rain by and by  gains strength
                                   It pours now in torrents, all untruth
                                      comes out in the open, face the ire,
                             the true power of the protests, eye of the storm.
Wind, you boom, give a clarion call to clean,
          revenge all the injustices, perpetrated til now.

I missed him not in raindrops,
But in roaring tidal waves.
We were wild.

I missed him not in breezes,
But in dizzy hurricanes.
We were crazy.

I missed him not in a bouquet,
But in a maze of flower gardens.
We were lost.

I missed him not in a cloud,
But in the heavens above.
We were ethereal.

I missed him not in a rain puddle,
But in the lakes and seas.
We were deep.

I missed him not in the new world,
But in historical lands.
And up to this day, it's still the same,
We are classic.

I feel so stitched together, like a rag doll -
not one worn down from being loved too much,
but one who has been ripped apart by loving too much.
And each lover picked me apart stitch by stitch – undone.
Then I’m left in threads: I am fully exposed.
How can that be, after spending years –many more all told –
sewing myself back together, my needle and thread fighting
to keep up. I naively trusted each lover when they promised
to mend me. What if someone had told me twenty years ago:
If you fall in love, never fully trust them, and ask yourself –
does he love me more?
I didn’t know then, I wasn’t so undone –
I could have stayed together.

© Sia Jane