Self-Reproach
An offensive mirror
produces my face,
and ears listen to a
hackneyed heart beat
The stench of stagnant
breath confirms my
identity and smoker’s
status. Sixty a day
The cold floor held
by blood drained feet,
a razor held in hand
at mannequin angle
The bile in my throat and
the fur on my tongue
congealed with the sickly
sweet syrup of life dripping out
The door behind falls open on
its own axis of gravity and the
mirror reveals an empty room
effused with a pall of used smoke,
Like grey mists rising on a moor,
seeking fresh lungs to enbalm.
I am as alone as an unnamed star
travelling the furthest reaches of space
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