Submerged Mirrors

A tap on crystal
glass, that looms
in the gloom of passageways under
cacophonous, perpetual waves,
wakes me.

Myself, afloat
in purgatorial bliss
wider in sight, a great new beast
on which my eyes can feast.

I wave and the mirror
waves back, gently.

I am them and they are I
as suddenly as
a look,
a thought.

The mirror builders
continue to watch,
I am now a member
of their rapid, vapid
party. We both smile
at the thought.

Sights unseen; my chest
puckered and
pure white;
my mouth, downturned, ill-mannered;
a swinging tail
ticking away the time which
now crackles with fragility
in the phosphorescence.

Unreflected, I am nought.
I am cracked into a million fragments
of my precious being.
The light is darker down here
where unseen I am
a
floating
white
ghost.

In Close

Enveloped and adorned
there’s a place to be mourned
where scarecrows salute the dawn
and I’m older.
Tangible and rigid
the lights are our limit
where my fingertips are frigid
and it’s colder.
It is better here or worse
without money in your purse
or the finite, pulsing curse
but we’re bolder.
Life in a cough of memory
where all that mattered was you and me
where we danced and sang with glee
or so he told ya.