We argue, my mirror and me.
Though we are twins we see things differently.
I see an image, it sees flesh
I am flesh and pulse and breath,
it is an image pulsing in tandem
but breathless.
In the image sdrawkcab era sdrow
but time remains - I get no younger.
Maybe if the mirror was in the attic
I’d fare better.
God made me in his image,
is that why I get things wrong?
2 comments:
.detrotsid tsuj gnorw ton on
.htiek eceip gnikovorp thguoht rehtona
Interesting thought and poem, Keith!
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