The mirror is strange in the things it reflects

As each morning it stares at me silent , yet quizzical of memory  absorbed

Each day that I squint at it blinking into the light of each forgotten dawn

 

What can it hide what does it convey, what can it remember what can it say

It’s grey  face reflecting the room,  mist on the surface hides the forthcoming day.

 

Slicing my hand across shimmering glass to peer through drips that drop to the floor

Leaking the youth of years gone before, the razor poised on the rubble of flesh

As murderous blades scrapes the stubble to death

 

And washing away St Nicholas beard revealing the skin once soft and revered

I peer to the depths with questioning eyes for where have I been and what was the ride

 

A hand on my back that creeps from behind ,points to the mirror of infinite time

 past the memory that clouds the  room where I stand 

waiting, just waiting, as gamblers survey they’re last hand.

 

Dust on my shoulder floats to the floor to mix with the footprints that have shuffled before into rooms full of candles put out by the breeze of life rushing by with time measured ease.

 

The cards that are dealt to us all one by one, by the dealer whose eyes pierce like the sun, spell out our fate from the day we began, eventually fade to rust , on a table of chance, though unjust.

 

You’ve  now turned away walked back to the river I hope you find your own forgiver

Who welcomes the memory that’s just been a token, along with mirror that’s always been broken.