There is something ritual about it,
the morning stock-take
of new imperfections
sleep softened but dawning
in the mirror’s first take cut.
Some can be teased or tweased
slipped beneath another skin,
of crafted contours,
folded to hide the everyday
not found anywhere but reality.
The tally builds like glass bottles,
one hundred hanging on a wall
but if one should fall
there shall be ninety-nine
and a smile to hide its absence.
When there are none left to shatter
you will see the shell crack,
hollow and so deathly dark
even the light whimpers, wanes
and withers into something cold.
Daily Post: Ceremony