fine lines sketched into my mirror
how did they get there? weathering
the decades, furrowed brow, creased
eyes with bags am i an old bag -
nonsense.
the mirror crack'd with an angry
whiplash i had to take a look
at my life, evaluate, extenuate
my outlook. hope for this old hag -
that kind of self talk for the birds.
bright city lights, broadway trimmed
my mirror looking extravagant, even
with its pits, spots, wrinkles of time
better lived than alone
am i a crackpot? If i am
i’m sipping from a loving cup
grateful for the full ride
i abide in the faithful arms
of Jesus Christ
his mirror was treacherous, scarred
his countenance was cracked
so much so that he was unidentifiable
except for the blood that loved
that exuded pure love
if i’m proud, my self is humbled
i’ll take those tracks - there is
traction in suffering and giving back
to my fellow man
lightly i cover up those wrinkles
only to blend this well-lived face
i face my reflection, satisfied
without indiscretion’s distraction
3/10/2023
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
March forevermore my child
Press onwards admirably
foward
Should you to be allowed
and granted access
Piggyback if you can on the
wing's of solent angel buffered
kite
Whilst all the while still
remembering lest never
i forget
That which was instilled in
me and taught
Knowledge for my own
protection in order to extenuate
my preservation
Such as to keep a safe distance
between i and the sun
Otherwise i am bound
to get burnt
Matters whether or not
if one is to journey in the dead
of winter
Take untold safety precautions
drown oneself in sunblock
factor 50+ sunscreen
Because it will always be the
very last thing you never
in your wildest imagination
would even contemplate
That will steal a march on you
and so to knock your army of toy
soldier's over as well
The perfect glass smile,
Complimented by an intricate fan to extenuate,
The beauty in her dagger filled eyes,
To describe her elegance in words is to exasperate,
The nuances of language and the strength of my tongue,
But to gaze upon such a form so pristine,
I would brave a thousands dangers to count myself among,
The thrall of admirers that throw themselves at her feet,
Alas, to consort with a man of the looming mountains,
Would be the highest scandal for a woman of the gentle valleys,
Yet still, for one kiss I would beseech a thousand pardons,
To her prestigious pure-blood heritage coveted by her honorable family,
Alas, that fate decrees my hand be fused to my pen,
And m mechanical legs scurry,
For as much as my heart yearns to gaze upon her again,
I am confined to my prison of strict nationality.
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