Technicolor Dreams

7

Thou art human,
Alas,
Thou art entrancèd by thy form,
An onlooker,
at thy covetèd reflection-

The mirror is thy compatriot,
Thy lover,
Thy romantic counterpart,
Ever infatuatèd
by its shapeless form-

An idyllic belief,
An inkling
in thy feeble mind-
A foolish musing,
Of false statements

Upon glancing at thy flaw'd spectre,
Looming in the black mirror,
Thou are thusly penetratèd,
By thoughts untrue,
Lo,
For they do not relent

Such recompense
doth one wish to conceive-
Too long thou hath gazed into thyself,
Thy true self ever present,
Yet never acknowledgèd

Thou hath no shame,
No remorse for thy vanity,
For the eternity thou hath spent
In thy glass' stead

Thou seeth thy imperfections,
Yet thou endureth,
Thou seeth thy blemish'd flesh,
Yet thou look'st upon thyself,
With undue adulation

Thou accept,
Thou glorify thy imprison'd image,
'Tis- in reality,
No more than a reflection of thy tangible truth
Lo in metaphysical form,
'Tis-in actuality,
No less than a reflection of thy inner beliefs

A subjective experience,
'Tis a glimpse
of thy flaws-
Thy many demons,
Clawing at thy psyche

'Tis a glint
of thy perfection-
Thy many inlaid jewels,
Beaming out

For the eye can see what the eyes cannot