The Thinking Poet

 

Hall of Mirrors

Life's a hall of mirrors;

Birth, the turnstile coming in.

Once inside I'm free to wander round,

Up and down the galleries of glass

Round and round the multi-mirrored maze

Looking for some self identity.

 

I never see, can never know myself except in glass.

And glass must ever flatter, mock and lie.

Glass leers and laughs at me,

Twists, ripples, bows to me,

Distorts, detracts, denies.

 

There's a turnstile leading out;

A few click-clacks, one staggers through,

Out to where the air blows sea-fresh keen,

Out to where the self is newly seen.

 

There's constancy confounding every change;

The same eyes see the many-mirrored face.

When I have done with wandering this maze,

Upon abiding things I'll set my gaze.

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R.R. Cretchley

13.4.02