Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Long since busted by those who can see through me,

With the special vision, reserved for God,

And those who glimpse my soul,

On an all too regular basis.

 

Busted. Now the imperfections are not just a little dot or blemish,

In need of cleaning with some sparkly Windex or similar,

I have become unclear to myself,

Unseeing what others see,

Obfuscating the obvious.

 

Busted. So what to do, now the real halo is exposed,

Reflect, pray, change.

All is possible, but this seems now a terrible,

Long look in the rear view mirror,

Which shows all which looked nice to me.

 

For what now is clear.

 

The Toy awaits the early morning arrival of a child,

Unsure if he will be played with this day,

Or left for another newer friend,

Who she is not bored with,

Or has “grown out of”.

 

One day to reflect on what it is to be unloved.

 

Do the shadows of the morning light,

Negate all work of the previous day,

Or reflect its improvement or change?

Can I measure progress based on what the sun does,

Shining through the lace curtains of an old Victorian doorway,

Or do I have to accept it; surrendering to this moment in time,

Recognizing, I have no influence at all on how it looks,

Just the power to observe, and maybe,

Maybe, help someone else find meaning where I did.

 

And I find meaning everywhere.