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…
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