Reflections always mock
The mind's eye.
Twisting truth to reveal
Adulterated image.

He painted her lips
With rose petals.
Attempting to revive
Some symbolism.

She responded with
Needles to his eyes.
What you can’t see
Won’t blind you.

Sigh, O calloused heart.
Recite the hymn
That only taunts you

“My ever tired image.
This is the picture of a girl
Who is not a poem.”

Rhythm lived within the soul.
Sucked out by glass demons
With the ability to chisel out beauty
And taint this image.

He serenaded her
With a band of nymphs
Who’d lost their wings.

She responded
By crafting makeshift flying tools
With spider web
What you can’t mourn
Isn’t lost

The repetition of this hymn
Keeping a single definition
Of what will and will not be

“My ever tired image.
This is the picture of a girl
Who is not a poem.”

[But hopes to be]