The Man in the Mirror

I punch the glass. It cracks.

Seven eyes seeing red.

They cry. Teardrops reflect

back the image. Look around.

In a French torture chamber

of gold and silk and a lion.

The shattered mirror lies on the 

floor like Narcissus' broken 

reflection, his lungs full of

himself, Who am I?

What am I? Where am I?

taunts the shiny glass of

the bell jar, curving my face

into the grotesques of a county carnival.

Around and around I see

the same form. The same face.

But there are so many, I’ve 

lost myself. You don’t look through 

the same lens I do, because

you see through me.