Hear me, here me

It is in the way one focuses in with their entire skin

to yammering Twains and muted Cages,

I have been listening, intent on comprehending

which requires presence of mind-a-ware-ness-or

No-thing from me.

I have filled my creased palms gathering

dust others have lain out for me,

 they say, fit me,

Fine.
So it may be.

The young lady with the feather in her hat-

the old lady with a crooked nose

saving face, the youth refuses to come out
behind memory

which is why mirrors won’t work in-side,

over-time.
They have me pegged,

and while wedged, with my arms tucked,

I have taken a moment to look around

and recognize my proximity 
to the precipice,

                                                to others on this plane

as day.

Painting by Winslow Homer, The Red Feather (1864) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Visit with a vampire

Open and wide, not quite terrified,

cobalt and steel too delicate to coin those piercing eyes.

She knows secrets-not yours of course.

She feels fear-for someone.

It seems the light falls softer after all these years,

or forgiveness just called up from the understudy.

These days, I find myself liking the girl with the smallest lips,

more and more,

precise instead of narrow, these days

she has changed, but those wisps of lips remain

barely red and sealed.

Most days she irritates me-lividly.

Those same two snapped purse lips in pink

never bold enough to communicate, much less 

accentuate or attract attention, pathetic and meek.

All of the time I am reminded they are enough

to say too much, and though never again,

I say again, and again I will pause-at my reflection. 

Photo By Unknown (Life time)-First Selfie? 
The original uploader was Tsukiakari at English Wikipedia. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

snoitcelfeR:Reflections

We call them reflections

because they work like mirrors,

you see,

they can only be understood backward.

*ECNALUBMA*

For your safety these images too-

are closer than they appear.

We also call reflections memories,

because we are re-minded again

of something old we want new again.

The intoxication from nostalgia

so comforting-like an addiction

forgetting-

the last time…

Memory is reflective,

returning its light to insight,

when one remembers to stop and think-

if this has happened before,

mirroring another time, you saw, you see

reflecting upon,

the memory of the old you.

Composed 4/21/15.
Image of painting by Frank Markham Skipworth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1911 'The Mirror'.