The Mirror

The Mirror


This is a sad story of which I write
About a man with a pen in his hand
Composing by candlelight
Disheartened I would say
Disenchanted to be sure
I could tell by the expressions on his haggard face
He was tired of living
A mirror on the bureau
Revealed the lines that he wore
Battle scars, furrowed like never before
As I watched him
I could feel his pain
He was obviously out of his mind
Sporadically scribbling
Bits
Pieces
Notes in his notebook
He had no idea, no clue
I had to see these notes
Curious as I am
I snuck up behind him
He could not see me
I wasn’t surprised when he pulled the gun
From his bureau
And held it to his head
I could tell he was frightened
Oh yes, he was frightened!
I snuck a glance over his shoulder
And saw the words he had been writing
“This is a sad story of which I write…”