A silver mirror kept in my room,
Transforms everything in its view,
With angles and shadows,
That change the perspective,
Of the viewer and the viewed.

Honesty comes back to the viewer,
Yet that too is skewed,
As the perspective of the viewer,
Is not the same as the viewed,
Nor is the interpretation of the image.

Its mocking or flattering view,
Depends on the time of day,
State of mind of the viewer,
And the influences of the outside,
Which the mirror cannot even see.

The truest reflection in the portal,
Still cannot define truly what it sees,
As the viewer is the viewed,
But the view is taintedly incomplete,
Shallow even to the viewer.

Beauty or vileness,
Love or hatred,
The mirror reflects only the surface,
And our minds supply the rest,
To our pleasure or disgust.

The mirror heals or stabs our souls,
With the same pleasure,
Unfeelingly reflecting what is,
But warping what might be,
While selling what isn't back again.

The eye sees what the mind wants,
And the mirror delights in all,
Void of comprehension,
Never glimpsing what lies beneath,
Yet fully influencing it.

How cold the mirror is,
As it strips away dignity or happiness,
How giving the mirror is,
Seducing and filling us with pride,
Never choosing but simply delivering,
It never definitively decides.

Is the story it tells more valuable,
When it sells us what we want,
Or when it offers what we need,
Or is there no value in the reflection,
As it has no true perspective at all?

The mirror's reflection is singularly,
The best and worst of us,
Our hopes and dreams,
The failings of our lives,
Yet the silver mirror cares not at all.



© Keith Tully