A dab of colour, a change of heart,
Fingers rummaging through metal shards.
Her tresses descend in a graceful fall,
As her eyes never leave the glass on the wall.
She turns, she twirls and gathers her hair.
It is her morning routine, an elaborate affair.
She tiptoes across the windows on the street.
She stops, she glances, she takes two minutes to see,
Whether it is this way or that way that her eyes look best,
Or whether she should reapply or double coat the rest.
Her dreams dance around on the reflecting screen,
Her ideal self, that’s all the glass will never be.
O treacherous mirror, you have enslaved the woman,
You've made her the unsuspecting victim of your gilded prison.
She is doomed to immanence, trapped in your snares.
It is you, your deception that she cannot escape.
There’s only one way to free her from your claws,
O wise glass that sees it all, please die for a righteous cause.
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Comments about this poem (Mirrors by Rebekah Daniel )
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