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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I have heard “The mirror tells not a lie, ’ I assuming myself the gorgeous one Abased in front of the looking-glass. I was one but the reflections were seven I was baffled either one was in seven or seven were in one, The images were mix: male and female, They all bore my bearings but deformed and mortified And bore the signs of identity on the chests. A reflection had razor-sharp teeth, the front ones quite naked, Black dishevelled hair it had, and fingers with long nails, And mouth with dots of blood and bore a sign of identity, “Miss. Ferocity.” Another image stood along with severity upon the face, The eyes were reddish-brown and the forehead screwed up, Upon the head it had a burnished crown, Not of gold but of iron or steel, The image bore the symbol of individuality, “Mr. Pride.” An image resembling me bore the impressions slack, Yawned time and again with the sleepy eyes, Restless she was as if being delayed to go to bed, She did not seem to have interest except in comforts, The badge on her chest named her, “Miss Lethargy.” An over-fattened bulky stout figure Stood, pressing others with her weight, She inhaled her breath snorting through the nostrils, And looked with avaricious eyes around herself, As if she looked for a feast to be nourished, Time and again she swabbed her dry lips with the tongue, The contents of her identity showed, she was “Miss. Gluttony.” A covetous being stood along with a crown of gold, Her costume was costly well embroidered With the thread golden and silvery, Her pockets were loose but filled with the coins, She had along a handbag overflowing weighty As if spilling over with costly stones, She bore the mark exhibiting her name, “Miss Greed.” A slim smart, sable in colour stood along, a creature, She scowled when the other stood beside her, Black flies hummed around her head, As gloomy thoughts surround the murky minds. She was a bag of bones, she breathed out a blaze When she exhaled as if furnace burnt in her chest, She seemed to have no pleasure since she was born, And did not taste a worthwhile feeling except scorn, She was known amid the figures, “Miss Jealousy.” A strengthless figure with close eyes stood propped, Leaning against the wall, seemed to be in slumber Since centuries, I might have assumed him dead If he would not have breathed with faint grunt, He bore the sign of his character, “Mr. Conscience.”
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