Is this reflection in the mirror actually me?
Is that my father’s concern lining my brow,
his merry laughter crinkling from the edges
of my eyes? Are those my mother’s cheek
bones beneath my skin and am I listening
through her ears? Is my deepest essence
a meager paraphrase of my father’s self?
Who am I if it is his life blood coursing
through my poor confused veins? Can I be
the same man I see reflected in the mirror?
In contemplating these enigmatic echoes,
I catch another’s images aspiring to emerge:
eyes more gentle and merciful than mine
battling with my own sinister, selfish glare;
smiles kinder and sweeter tenderly warring
with my own self-absorbed, petty frowns.
Am I still me if it is His life blood coursing
through my poor forgiven veins? Who will
I be if He so permeates my human existence
that His mirrored reflection is actually me?
