Rounded edges, intertwining in such a familiar way,
A smooth surface, tangible and concrete.
An endless pit thrusting light infinitely forward,
Timeless, never-ending, used throughout generations past,
And destined for future posterity.
Reflections sought and found, but never truly seen.
Light shimmers and pervades the looker’s face,
Distracting the beholder from a deeper, more intellectual gaze.
Wherein the distorted, immaculate image remains fake, misunderstood.
For reflections and mirrors are but a transparent guess,
Never seeing that which is more, only less.
Poet’s Notes: Sometimes I enjoy picking a random object and writing about it. I like seeing what I can come up with once I’m done. The object that I picked for this poem was, of course, a mirror. The last line is my favorite--when one looks into a mirror, all one can see is an image from the outside and nothing within. Images are fake shells, encasing the true being of the self inside.
Editor’s Note: I enjoy the way this poem builds to the intense rhyming couplet reveal. I decided against an accompanying illustration for this one so as not to spoil the surprise.