Off The Wall Poem by Sally Plumb Plumb

Each time I pass
my mourning mirror
a face leers at me,
grimacing black
like a rain cloud.

Cursing aloud
at its impudence,
it mimics my actions
and belies me.
Short time is spent
with the incident.

A nervous step back
and the spy
hangs around,
sterile of sound
and still.

Will it leave
the worried me?
I'm concerned
about what I see.
It's insecurity.

Then it fell.
So did I.
Mind in shards
with yards and yards
of dissociation.


Waf