In a Room Decorated With Mirror
The blunt is fiercely burning,
And the ashes are dropping on the ash tray,
Eyes, back and front with high expectation,
With a face singularly acute and intelligent,
Still looking at the mirror.
Average frame, bloodshot eyes,
High chin, dark lips,
Scares of stabbed and bullet wounds,
On the chest and back,
Still looking at the mirror.
A figure full of decision and dignity,
A firm and balanced manhood,
Stern look, a living man in a grave man’s mood,
A light of unwonted pleasure and need in the thought,
Still looking at the mirror.
Tight fist, ready to punch hard till walls are broken,
Ready to bear a stifling sensation of pain and suspense,
A thousand evanescent memories of happy days flashing,
And again, holding back,
Still looking at the mirror.
A total impression ineffable and indescribable,
Overwhelming like a tragic futility,
A defined tumult of vehement feeling.
Suddenly, a tumultuous rush of sensations attacked,
Held the man in the room decorated with mirror.
There he stood for an unknown time,
Staring unseeingly at the mirror glasses around him,
Hoping to see the best of himself,
But saw a soul scourged and smitten
With a twinge of embarrassment,
Like a detached segment of life.
I’m the man in a room decorated with mirror.
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