here I stand before the mirror; this fleeting moment is the end of my past.
it is gone -
and back again.
a moving target to stamp in a glaring sun.
It burns my eyes unless I look away.
it is the truth; it's searing disposition
is that which I deny;
for I have not the courage to look directly at the light.
the reflection in the glass is that of my soul; it's miraculous mark of potential or waste; it's spectrum, from wrinkled grace to chaos; from tired eyes to healing - and from the sullen mouth of honesty to the arrogant lips of denial.
in all the wondrous woven colors of my journey; I either see or look away.
the faces and breath of all who love
or injure me are the canvas of my life.
the brush and blood is mine to invent and reinvent myself in the image of a soaring song.
Copyright © James Cecil | Year Posted 2016