The Figure In the Mirror
Standing all alone for an unknown time,
The Caracal pistol in my right hand was fully loaded
But I couldn’t fire a shot.
Half choked by a rising paroxysm of rage,
And half-suffocated by his triumph,
I stared unseeingly but he was still there.
I should have killed him long time ago.
His lips loosened in a furtively exultant smile,
And shrewd gaze fixed appraisingly upon me,
I cut my reflections adrift,
And felt a qualm of apprehension,
Because he has always been there.
Daily, I do see his face,
He’s the first to congratulate me whenever I win,
And equally the last to criticize me when I've done wrong.
Even when my heart is bleeding,
from many betrayals and mental wounds,
Leaving me with a glacial pang of pain like
the stab of a dagger of ice frozen from a poisoned well
He never left me alone.
He’s always there to see the blood in my eyes,
During my lonely night and fearful days,
Showing me unconditional love when I’m stung with hatred.
He’s not blind to see my dreams and aspirations,
Nor naïve to understand the truth hidden in my lies.
In my perfect imperfections,
He still knows about my scars, how long they’ve stayed,
And the reasons why they are there on me.
He promised to be with me till the day I will die,
I now see the reasons why I’m unable to shoot him,
And can’t just thank him less.
He is Everestus Annie Stewart,
The figure in the mirror.
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