Poetry’s a mirror
Of glass and metal born;
Something crystal clear,
something bright as morn.
But a mirror at an angle,
it casts a crooked view;
it takes the known mundane
and gives back something new.
In trite works it is simple,
Just what you’ve seen before;
Some mirrors’ shine is shallow,
but others show you more.
The breathless and sublime,
The many springs of hurt;
The beauty in the brutal,
the dark beneath the dirt.
Verse reflects them all,
A mirror cruel and kind:
It gives you back in plenty
The depths of your own mind.
