Hangs a mirror on the wall of the abode seen
with a demeanour mystic, queer, fine, indiscreet.
Shows it to each who sits in front a stolen sheet,
telling truths revealed to none, a shaming scene.
Oh! The past returns to haunt those who there have been.
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As we speak is seated well a woman worn out,
looking into mirror that and into her past;
Furrows hers have vanished, they appear to not last.
White hair in the mirror is as brown as a mud pot;
Eyes hers charming, face hers graceful, there is no rot.
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Woman that reminded of the glory she had
talks to past self hers through eyes that see now quite well;
Past but comes with thoughts mixed, making her their scents smell.
Seem some pleasant, many foul, rouse views good and bad.
Smiles the woman first, is left nostalgic, then sad.
Photos hanging on the wall that lie on her left
learn the woman is now of joy and peace bereft.
A comb in her hand, a gown on her body rest,
the lamp in the room brightens all that is left;
And the dame broods on everything once laid to rest.
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Categories: Ekphrastic Poetry