Mirror's Dream Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

For a moment
I thought her hair had something of rain.
As if some primordial mud had messed it up
that it resembled prehistoric plants in a fossil.

What of her eyes?
A whisper told me
they were gifts from the wizard of Oz,
so she could see the world a bit dimmer,
as if he knew that light would wilt her.

I think I tasted, for a short while,
the sky’s iris,
as I touched her lips,
while her body charged me
and I started radiating the polar light,
with a shine that only she and I could ever see.

It was that unexpected discharge,
a magical spark,
that mixed the reflection with the original
and threw me into a deep sleep,
somewhere between the heavy smell
of an old pair of trousers,
the fireflies of some half-lit cigarettes,
and the echo of a rusted radio voice.

My last memory was
that there was Grace in her name.

Darkness again…