Self-Reproach Poem by HEG George

An offensive mirror
produces my face,
and ears listen to a
hackneyed heart beat

The stench of stagnant
breath confirms my
identity and smoker’s
status. Sixty a day

The cold floor held
by blood drained feet,
a razor held in hand
at mannequin angle

The bile in my throat and
the fur on my tongue
congealed with the sickly
sweet syrup of life dripping out

The door behind falls open on
its own axis and the mirror
reveals an empty room effused
with a pall of used smoke,

Like grey mists rising on a moor,
seeking fresh lungs to enbalm.
I think I see a shadow of someone waiting.
And I think that someone is me