Painted glass

I can’t see the inside of the mirror,
it must be a dark place,
as reflections move with the speed of light
to get out of there.
What is behind the surface,
what is there inside the image
that reflects when it has absorbed
your face?
How much of you
is reflected,
how much is glass?
What are mirrors made of?
Just when I knew you,
you dropped the mirror
or did you smash it?
And you fell in thousand
times you, each different,
Glass and aluminium.
Can I keep the piece with your eye?


Comments on: "Painted glass" (4)

  1. Mirrors are dangerous things. Good poem.

  2. Hi Duncan, I suppose so! Thank you very much for your comment πŸ™‚

  3. This is a very interesting poem. I love the last line – which also seems like another beginning because eyes, like mirrors, are also reflective…reflections within reflections. It feels as if another poem could spring (or be reflected from) this one.

    • Hi πŸ™‚ yes it leaves room for new perspectives I suppose. Thank you very much for your thoughts! Mirrors never show you the truth, always the opposite left and right. That is fascinating. πŸ™‚

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