The face in the window

I lead my life outside myself
The distance both intimate, too close —
And so far away the details are blurred
Either way, it's indefinite who I am

Uncanny, I live in an aside world
A Parallel. Never where I should be
If I knew that sort of thing. Never at
The same exact second. Like Déjà Vu

It can lead to feeling self-conscious
Conspicuous. Perhaps too aware of
The face in the window…
You might say it's me from another life

For I exist in a numb mannequin state
Posing as if pretending, half a step behind
Waiting to inhale as I watch Reality from
Outside or in my head, never catching up

A dormant semi-coherent unapparent
Partly-there condition of nonchalance
I peer into the chamber with an envious grin
But I'm the one who hid the key

And forgot where I left it. Judge me not

As I look through the window's mirror darkly
A tad dizzy with piled-up ideas and wishes
Saddened for the stack of hopes and fragments
These broken wisps and dreams ungrasped

The skulls and Mummies. Memento Mori
Hourglasses that cheat. Typewriters missing keys
Books and the building blocks of what matters
Tarot Decks and equally nostalgic memorabilia

In the vault where I keep everything locked
My curious treasures. Fads of window-shopping
A stream of Amazonian Orders. Scary dolls
A few cases of Amnesia and Cracker Jack

This is where I'll be found, frozen in time
A corner ornament, stiff as a board, clutching a pen
To jot one last note, a final reminder in cryptic letters
Having papered every surface in shards of thought

Depending upon which side I may be on —
The interior or exterior of the pane, if such things
May truly be determined without splitting hairs
Or Atoms; shattering the Universe's Fourth Eye

In a Fourth Wall sort of way

Can you see me through the glass?
I hope the light is kind to features worn, eroded
Dulled by age and cares and harmful rays
I never did remember Sunscreen

If eyes are the soul's undraped window
My features have stories on display, bizarre
Reflections slanted, skewed like rains
In fishtank repose: pellucid, wavy, dented

Am I now the museum piece or a clockface
Still ticking? Do hours and days reveal
The dust fallen from decades and beyond?
Perhaps it is all subjective, merely junk

For one maintaining value, discarded by
Another. My ultimate obsession, to be an object
Difficult to define. Elusive to categorize as
Timeless or Defunct, Antiquity or Past Tense

Leave them uncertain, keep them guessing
Become a curiosity yourself and you might
Stick around. I wish to endure, added
To my own exhibits and personal favorites…

A fool's cabinet of incurable fixations.

Lori R. Lopez is a peculiar author, poet, illustrator, and wearer of hats. Verse and stories have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies including The Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Weirdbook, The Horror Zine, Space & Time, HWA Poetry Showcases, JOURN-E, Impspired, Aphelion, Altered Reality, Dead Harvest, and California Screamin (Foreword Poem). Books include The Dark Mister Snark, Leery Lane, An Ill Wind Blows, The Witchunt, The Fairy Fly, and Darkverse: The Shadow Hours (nominated for an Elgin Award). Some of Lori's poems have been nominated for Rhysling Awards. You can learn more about her at the website shared with two talented sons: https://www.fairyflyentertainment.com

Find more by Lori R. Lopez in the Author Index.