Golden Mirror

In my blooming brokenness, I seek for a clue of something meaningful, but what if nothing of velvety value ever lies within material items, frozen in trembling time, soaked in raining blood roses, yet holds memories inscribed~ with blushing beams of blueberry glows, drifting above hushed hills sitting in the hollow hallways in hallowed motionlessness. Is it ironic that a golden mirror emanates reflections of more than just my bronze silhouette? It weighs heavy with seething secrets, lost between changing seasons and deranged emotions, resigned in rhythmic requiems of restrained freedom. I remember the suppressed sagas of silvery glass, that stretched beyond my watery iris, written with russet skin of fallen feathers... and I whisper to the vermilion wallflowers within my burgundy room, of how I found the magical mirror to my aching soul, in a retail store, illuminated by medieval chandeliers, hanging in Victorian gloominess. I used to sculpt crystalline chronicles along the caramel-tinted frames, that have seen stars of summer fade into fragile springs, while autumn arrived, knocking on my conscience, to cloak me in sparkling champagne warmth. But time is a relentless reminder of how the garnet moon wanes, and constellations of glistening truth crack. Now the mirror that heard the unsung songs beneath my marigold lipstick, is reluctant to see the unspoken wounds, leaving me stranded in an accidental battle with rhyme-less words, for all that remains, untamed, are hopelessly claimed strings of familiar, once-upon-a-fairytales... So it refracts, stands, unbothered, like a forgotten ornament left under a broken tree, with weeping leaves and tainted twigs, without a companion~ wrapped as a pleasant present ribboned with riddles of a weathered d r e a m ….. I have no desire to mindlessly objectify an abandoned object with mosaic metaphors…