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.

 

 

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Daily Post: Ceremony