Who is that man staring back at me from the glass?

With eyes that whisper stories, and lips that yell lies.

Why does it take all my courage to look at him, and close my ears?

He looks at me like he knows.

What do I look like to him?

Do I belong to his lips or his stare?

Whoever he is, he scares me.

However he looks, I exhaust.

My brain fails against his.

His fail against mine.

We reconnect with a dialect  we both speak.

In the viscous thick language of rage.

Both eloquent in our conversation.

Who is this man who stares at me through the broken glass?

I stare at his cheeks. I can see a smile reaching to them.

He with the angel’s smile and the devil’s scowl.

Our eyes raise. I want to look at his abyss. He wants to see mine.

I reach the white under his pupils. My heart stops, a feeling like I was pushed from over a cliff.

He fears me too, now.

I see it now. I see what it had always been. A long story written in time, dictated by star dust.

I see all there is to see in those dark hidden secrets behind his eyes. All the regret, the hate, the anger, the pain, the horror, that raging wave of fear that held itself settled in so long.

Nothing behind them.


I no longer see the man in the shards of broken glass.

To me he died. To him I left to the heavens.



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