Reflections
Some say they are dead
or were never born.
We know they exist
because warm breath
leaves marks on a wine glass,
and when that breath looks back
they see through us.
In the basilisk black
or in the blind glare
they stare,
and behind their eyes
are mine and yours.
On the smoky periphery
of vision
they transpire
as weightless as spider bones.
They are what we see
in our cloudy mirrors.
They are our minds
as thought turns to read itself.
Some say they were never born,
never died. They merely answer:
You.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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