Minus the Regenerative

the mirror takes no prisoners, for it doth reflect all the ugliness that composes the present & very real you that stares back, smashing again & again with fists full up to the brim with conglomerated rage--- it grows back, faster than the hydra, whose tentacles lash back in the face of all uncompromising & stark reality--- with the ambition of youth burnt away, barely noticeable in the ashtray of one’s fading existence & the future curling up ahead in a brand new open flame--- balancing on the high wire like Kurtz’s snail slinking along the razorblade--- hating that so much is lost & dreading that so much is left to live, with all the good memories echoing like a searing pain that cannot be cauterized, yet cannot be followed up with any newness whatsoever--- minus the regenerative power of the broken mirror that reveals all cruel deterioration, Orwell’s laughing in his grave, for the deserved image of 50 is driving rapidly like an oncoming train & you better believe that there are no brakes.