Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Who of us is set to fall,
Upon a floor,
All cask in blood,
With nothing that we ever loved
Grasped in gore-soaked claws,
Sanity all in the devil’s maw?
Silver mirror frame that borders,
This curse’d mirror of madmen’s orders,
Who was your maker,
And who did he slay,
To make you shine so bright by day
And in the moonlight, coy as nacre?
Mirror, mirror, with your strange complexion,
Why do I never recognize my reflection?
Why is there an alien staring back,
As if I’d just donned a mask?
And why does she always seem
As if she’d birthed every bad dream
That I had ever seen?
Crystalline and moony shield,
What secrets can you yield,
To those who fall to bloodied knees
In abhorred worship of your flaw
And follow your letter to the law?
Veil with gaze like blade, like knife,
You have taken to many a life,
So why now as I stand before your call,
And then I feel nothing at all,
Save for the shallow whisper
In my watery left ear,
As you coax the dagger through my spine,
And then I near the starting line,
Begin to shamble ever further
When I listen to your accursed murmur.
YOU ARE READING
Within the Catacombs of the Soul
Short Story"They who dream by day are cognizantof many things which escape those who dream only by night." Edgar Allan Poe. A collection of short stories and poems written over the years by Alexis Pool.
