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Rated: · Poetry · Dark · #1645418
The return to the same stare, the same blur, everyday.
I look into
This glaring mirror;

A stranger concealed within it.
Eyes - red and empty,
Harsh as the sun

That has torn my face
to a dry heap
of withered leaves.

And these
Dark eyes - their
Constant stare,
so concerned!,

Will not vanish
Until I do.
© Copyright 2010 M. T. Roscoe (m.t.roscoe at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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