by Stuart Sharp
This is not a mirror in which you ask
‘Who is the fairest?’
Or, if you do, its silence tells the truth
Its cracks reflect the time worn chasms
Of the skin, and liver spots appear
Silver burnt upon the glass.
This mirror will not show the world
Spread out for you to touch
Instead it shows the past
In scarred lines and the haunting of reflected eyes
In every mark that was not there before.
It will not reach, to let you speak
Across far lands
The only one who hears the words is
There, reflected in that broken pane
But if you can speak
And hear the words they say
Perhaps that is magic too
© 2007 Stuart Sharp
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