Shadow Of A Sin

In the calm of an empty room

I found Pride behind the mirror glass,

and coaxed it into daylight.

I fanned flames from ash

with a slip of red silk,

slashed open white to the skin,

bared like orange pith,

small defense against an outside world.

Like water,

Pride slipped from me at a doorway

and in the mirror

was only sin the colour of shame.

Grey again in the ruins of an inferno,

I told myself

no one was looking at me anyway.

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Reflection

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